Page 1 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
BAILEY
M y first language is love. But I’m hardly fluent. In fact, I failed the exam … and am about to flunk out of my job.
As usual, I’m late and I don’t have “Apology” baked goods today. Not that my blondies went over well on my second day at the Ice Palace. But that was months ago.
My tendency to over-commit and then panic about deadlines, which results in stress baking until midnight, may have something to do with my perpetual tardiness.
The truth is, I’m an impostor—a small-town girl who doesn’t belong in this professional setting.
I can’t even afford a new pair of pantyhose.
Clear coat nail polish to the rescue! Let’s just hope that little run doesn’t decide to creep past my knee and try to make a getaway before the end of the day.
Rushing across the main concourse of the Nebraska Knights’ new athletic complex main building, I pass the wide walkways with panoramic views of the rink and go straight to the administrative section as the elevator door closes.
“Please hold it,” I call with a pathetic plea in my voice.
Confession: I also have to pee, but that’s not the point. I have ninety seconds before I’m officially late. I’ve used up all my grace periods and reasonable excuses, but I just need to be on the floor of the admin offices by nine sharp.
I cannot afford to lose this job.
A large hand cuffs the elevator door and they slide back open. Moving rapidly on momentum and the espresso in my pumpkin spice latte, I nearly bash into the guy who’s solely responsible for saving the day.
“Thank you.” In a flurry, I tuck my hair behind my ears, then adjust my planner and oversized purse, which had been thwacking my thigh as I ran for the elevator in my sensible pair of black pumps—never mind the permanent marker hiding the scuffs.
Thankfully, I didn’t spill any of my coffee. Priorities, people.
My sister, a big-shot Chicago attorney, participates in a charity 5K each year and all the women on her team wear high heels. I’d turn an ankle and cause a spectacle. I just know it.
Coming from a family of high achievers—my mom is an eye surgeon, my dad is also in law, and my little brother, Xander, graduates from Yale next summer—I’m the weak link.
“No problem,” says the man with a low, rumbly voice and the tease of a Southern accent.
It’s a windy day and I’m pretty sure my race to get to work on time also caused my eyes to water, smudging my mascara.
I bought an off-brand called Cover Cirl at a Buck and Below.
It has similar packaging and font as my favorite kind, so I figured it was probably made in the same factory.
I was wrong and had a sty last week to prove it.
For this reason, and this reason alone—mostly—I don’t dare look up at the person with me in the elevator.
It’s not like I’ve ever had a dream with a particularly handsome Southern gentleman approaching me on a dusty road at sundown, tipping his hat, and saying, Mighty fine to see you this evenin,’ miss. How do you do?
And that dream definitely didn’t become a fantasy I’ve played out like in the cowboy romance novels my nanna reads .
Instead, I glance at the panel on the wall, see that my floor is already selected, and then drop my gaze to a large pair of dress shoes belonging to a man standing approximately two and a half feet to my left.
“Running late?” he asks.
I glance at my bare wrist where my grandfather’s vintage watch usually wraps securely like a hug, reminding me not to miss a moment of my life … or work. “Running late? Perpetually.”
Sensing his gaze land on the faded watch outline from my summer tan, I feel flustered and foolish that I didn’t wear a bracelet to hide the pale skin—or get the watch fixed.
The elevator makes a clanking sound and I jostle, losing my footing and wishing I could wear sneakers to work—I would’ve been able to if my maple butter biz had not been an epic fail.
The same hand that held the door for me reaches for my wrist so I don’t fall, forcing me to look at him. A warm tingle rushes up my arm and sizzles on its way inward.
“Gotcha,” he says.
My stomach whooshes and not only because I’m afraid something is wrong with the elevator, causing me to be trapped in here, making me late for sure …
but it’s also because I’d be enclosed in a small space with arguably the most attractive man in the NHL.
He has broad shoulders, a strong jawline, and a tease of amusement in his eyes that’s at odds with how he looks like he’s dressed for a corporate meeting.
I’d really hate (love) to be stuck with him. However, they didn’t have elevators in the cowboy days, so there’s that.
Meeting a pair of blue-green eyes, to my dismay (delight), sure enough, it’s Carson “Bama” Crane.
I do not secretly have a stubborn and irrational crush on him with his smirky smile, charm, impressive build, and put-together appearance.
No, I dislike him after the aforementioned baked goods incident .
The elevator shudders like it’s having second thoughts about remaining suspended in the cement shaft of the building.
“I sure hope this thing isn’t broken,” I say, my voice shaky.
He grips the back of his neck. “That would really put a punctuation mark on this morning.”
“Like a period, question mark, exclamation point, or an ellipsis?” When I talk to him, it’s like my mouth is numb from chewing on ice.
What am I saying? Bailey, you really had to get particular about the punctuation?
To be clear, Carson Crane and I had only exchanged nine words in real life before today.
However, when he and I met in my dream on that dusty road and he said, Mighty fine to see you this evenin,’ miss.
How do you do? I didn’t respond right away.
Combing me up and down with a lazy gaze, he said, Well, darlin’, don’t leave me in suspense.
Like a scene missing in an old movie, my answer was lost and this being me we’re talking about, instead of words coming out of my mouth, a pair of false, wooden teeth tumbled onto the road.
Dreams, I tell ya.
One day, I’d like an explanation of what in the world my brain thinks it’s doing while I’m asleep.
Anyway, I wanted to go wherever he was going. Where that was, I’ll never know. Go figure. As I said, it was a dream. But it’s also taken up residence in my head.
Suffice it to say, Carson Crane is an athlete with polish and poise.
Meanwhile, I’m bumbling, awkward, and failing at pulling off professional and put-together.
Trust me, I’m not being self-deprecating.
My family unanimously agrees. When I sent a selfie to our group chat on the first day of my new job, my sister commented on how my shirt was wrinkled.
My brother changed my contact name to Wrinkle in Time— a dig at my perpetual tardiness and everyone sent variations of the laughing face emoji .
I don’t mean to be late; I sometimes just get distracted. There are things to do, people!
As if the elevator wants to make sure we’re awake, it shakes again.
In response to my question about punctuation, Carson replies with a contemplative, “Comma. The day has just begun. But I do see that you got dressed in the dark this morning.” He chuckles.
I gasp like a Southern belle and all but throw my arm across my forehead dramatically at his insult.
He says, “Either that or your favorite color is blue.”
“It is, but that’s beside the point. I didn’t get—” Glancing down at my attempt at an office-appropriate outfit, I’m wearing a navy blue blazer and royal blue pants along with what I refer to as my pineapple garden blouse.
It features happy yellow pineapples with cobalt blue flowers.
My defense dies on my tongue as the elevator dings and the doors whoosh open. “It’s chromatic.”
“You might want to keep a poncho and rubber gloves handy so you don’t have another accident. Maybe safety goggles too,” he says, referring to our first and only other actual encounter.
“I have tactical baked goods camouflage at the ready.” My smile tightens, but it is there nonetheless because it’s a rebel and because Carson Crane has that effect on me. Trust me, I hate it.
“I hope you’re not late, Blondie,” he says, as if insistent on having the last word.
And yet the flutters rushing through me as my silly Southern fantasy plays in the background of my mind turn into frustration. My cheeks turn a different primary color than my favorite one at the embarrassing nickname. I march off as he chuckles briefly at my back.
Is he purposely trying to fluster me?
I can’t fathom why. It could be that he’s a jerk who dresses well, but that defies his reputation as being a gentleman, aka the gentleman wingman. At least he was until last spring.
Turns out he’s a real smug bug. Since he’s a hockey star, he doesn’t have to worry about things like punctuality because he’s oh-so-important. Meanwhile, I missed the late bell.
I realize I’m walking toward the C-suites, which are in the opposite direction from my temporary cubicle space. I turn on my heel, bumping into a broad chest in a slate blue button-down.