Page 10 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

I ’d like to say I’m off-kilter from all the traveling, but it probably has more to do with discussing so much personal stuff with Bailey. She’s easy to talk to and our conversation flows as we hit construction.

She confesses that she’s a bit reluctant to return to her hometown, right back where she started, without her name in the proverbial lights.

I tell her I got the nickname “Bama” because you don’t see too many hockey players come from the Southern states. As Gabe has said, I’m a veritable hockey-playing cowboy. Yeehaw-key!

“Do you miss home?”

“No,” I answer simply, signaling I don’t want to talk about it.

The truth is, I miss the “me” I was back then. I had an easy laugh, a ‘No worries’ approach to life. I’d take spontaneous road trips to the coast, play the guitar on the beach, and still be the first one at hockey practice the next morning.

I thought I could take all that with me when I turned pro. Yes, I’ve been busy, but Charlene said she’d wait for me. When I finally proposed last spring, she cited my “lack of seriousness about the future” as one reason for turning me down .

Then what had I been doing all that time, building my career to a stable point where I could comfortably support her and a family?

I’d been using some of my resources to help my mother after she gave everything for me to play hockey when I was a kid, but I was also preparing for a future with my high school sweetheart.

The one who promised she’d wait for me, through thick or thin ice. Yeah, right.

When Charlene turned me down, I spiraled, messed up during playoffs, and am still struggling to find my footing.

The future I thought I had suddenly stopped right in front of my nose like I’d been running at a piece of sheet glass. Then it shattered into a million pieces.

After the detour, Bailey and I both fall silent the closer we get to Maple Falls.

Hints of leaves changing from vibrant green to muted hues form a patchwork quilt along the hillsides with the approach of autumn.

Further on, proud pines pierce the pale blue light of the northern sky.

The crisp air rolls into my lungs and I find myself breathing easier than I have since leaving Nebraska.

A sign indicates a gas station at the next exit, so I get in the right lane. “I’m going to pull off for gas. Need anything?”

Bailey’s tired eyes brighten. “Only to go to the best flea market in the state.”

“I was thinking water, snacks, Combos.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Those salty little pretzel things filled with cheese? Those are an okay road trip snack, but red licorice is where it’s at.”

“For some reason, your junk food choice doesn’t surprise me. However, we’re not stopping at a flea market.”

Bringing her hands together under her chin, she bounces a little in her seat. “Pretty please. It’s so cool. There’s a whole vintage sporting goods section, a custom leather goods shop, and an entire wall filled with antique glass jars.”

“Why on earth would you want to look at a wall of glass jars? ”

“For my hobby.”

“You collect glass jars?”

“To fill.”

“Like with hair doodads and stuff?”

“No, with maple syrup.”

“But it’s already in a container.”

“Not if you make it yourself.”

My brain must still be in the fog because I don’t quite understand. “Are you saying your favorite pastime is filling jars with maple syrup?”

“I make maple syrup. Sanitize the jars and then fill them. Can’t a gal have a hobby?” she asks as if affronted. It’s adorable.

“Of course. That’s super cool. Any others?”

She mumbles something that sounds like getting married. However, I must’ve misheard, having recently discussed my failed engagement proposal.

I pull off the highway and ask, “What was that?”

She repeats it in a low voice and I wonder if it’s something weird like collecting belly button lint or competitive duck racing.

Cupping my hand around my ear, I say, “I didn’t catch that.”

“Getting married.”

The words slowly filter toward me like a lazy Sunday afternoon. If I had a force field, I’d deploy it right now. “Your other hobby is to get married? So you do have a scrapbook filled with wedding ideas and designs for your dream house?” I ask, recalling her comment earlier.

She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “How’d you guess? But it’s just a little collection of the things I’d like at the ceremony, reception, and beyond.”

“Wouldn’t your future husband have a say?”

“Of course, they’re just ideas and, um, stuff.”

Following the signs, I turn for the gas station. “Does that really qualify as a hobby?”

“Yes, because in my spare time, I pursue marriage. I don’t date around, play the field, or rink, or whatever hockey players do.”

I snort because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to get Charlene out of my system—the exact opposite of my decade-long relationship. Instead of clinging to commitment, I’ve hurled myself into the dating scene with all the grace of a flaming wrecking ball hitting center ice.

From accidentally bringing my vegetarian date to a steakhouse to showing up at the wrong restaurant and inadvertently joining someone else’s anniversary celebration, my love life has become a highlight reel for catastrophe.

Getting out of the Jeep to pump gas, I mutter, “Good luck.” I sure could use some, too, because traveling with Bailey, her sweet maple scent filling up the vehicle, and discussing marriage isn’t making me want to run to the hills like it should.

She gets out of the rental, stretches her arms overhead with a cute little kitten yawn, and then leans against the door with the gas pump between us. Her gaze sharpens on something in the distance and she pops to her feet. “The flea market is less than a mile away. Please, can we stop?”

“I thought you had to get to the wedding.”

“We can just pop in real quick. Please, pretty please.” Hands clasped together under her chin again, she slowly bats her eyelashes at me.

I have a feeling our definitions of real quick differ, but Bailey is hard to deny. “Okay, but let’s set a time limit. Fifteen minutes, jars only.”

She scrunches up her face and lifts her shoulder.

“They also have really yummy buttercrunch toffee candy. Apples are in season, so we could see if there are any tarts. Oh, Jam Sessions used to have a stall there and had the best raspberry jam. Not sure if they still do. Don’t tell Aunt Mindy.

Hers is good, but not as good as she thinks.

I shouldn’t return home on an empty stomach. ”

I chuckle. “I thought you were going to say empty-handed. ”

“That too.”

“Okay, but fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Eighteen.”

“Deal.”

Bailey holds out her hand to shake and I hesitate. But her hazel eyes cling to mine and I slide my palm against hers, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the crisp northern morning.

She gives me directions, practically plastered to the window with excitement as she relays how her family would stop here on the way to the lake during the summer.

She speaks fondly, yet I detect nervousness about the wedding, like she wants to postpone it, which is no surprise considering it’s between her ex and her cousin, but maybe for other reasons too.

A massive retro sign advertises The Market & Mercantile: a flea of curiosities . The building is huge and in need of paint, but I guess the treasures are on the inside because Bailey excitedly races ahead and I catch up.

“Game plan: We can’t get separated. Don’t get your fortune told—it’s a ripoff. Do try the free beef jerky samples. So good. Oh, and if I tug on my ear, that means you have to pretend to be my grouchy husband who wants to leave.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So the vendor doesn’t lose the sale. The whole trick here is bargaining. I go high. They go low. We meet in the middle. It’s the rules.”

Puffing my cheeks on an exhale, I say, “I have no idea what I’m getting into, do I?”

She smiles and squeals a little. “It’s going to be so fun.”

Glancing at the time on my phone, I say, “The clock starts now.”

When we get inside, Bailey is a flurry of darting motion from one stall to another like a hummingbird, hunting for nectar and treasure .

In less than five minutes, she has a box full of vintage glass containers in pale shades of blue, green, and purple with unique textures.

Some have glass lids fitted with wire closures and others don’t have tops.

She also has two jars of jam because she insists I have one too, and is following her nose to the Apple Cart Tart stall.

The place is a playground for bargain hunters, trinket collectors, crafters, and curiosity seekers. Not only is there a fortune teller, there are musicians, artists sketching live portraits, and a magician dressed in a black suit who has a dark, pointy beard.

Outside his novelty booth, he dazzles a small audience with a vanishing box.

Flipping a coin between his knuckles, he tosses it in the box like a wishing well and it disappears.

Next, he does the same thing—minus the knuckles and tossing—with an audience member.

I’m slightly mesmerized. But yeah, yeah, yeah.

It’s all smoke and mirrors. Just like love.

The magician calls, “For my next demonstration, I need two volunteers.”

Bailey thrusts her arm into the air.

“Ahh! I appreciate your enthusiasm, miss. You and your gentleman, please step forward.” He gestures toward us.

I point at myself. “Me?” I’m not her gentleman.

Bailey links her arm through mine and drags us into the small circle surrounding the magician. He asks our names and then presents us to the crowd.

“Such an attractive couple. Aren’t they?” he asks everyone gathered.

They give a rousing round of applause.

The magician asks, “Have either of you ever been arrested?”

“Does that disqualify us?” Bailey asks.

“Not in the slightest. You’ll see it gives you credibility in this instance,” the magician answers.

“Unfortunately,” I mutter.

Bailey stares at the floor.

I tuck my chin. Has she been arrested? I cannot imagine this sweet and adorably disheveled yet professional woman being thrown into the back of a police cruiser.

With a chummy grin, Bailey supplies, “He stole a piglet.”

The crowd laughs.

Eyes wide, I ask, “What did you do?”

Clearing her throat, she whispers, “It was a crime of passion.”

Who is this lady? I imagine I have cartoon googly eyes right about now.

The crowd leans in, intrigued.

“My ex was holding my favorite sweater hostage, so I let myself into his apartment to retrieve it. He came home. Bad timing, right? And called the police. He charged me with breaking and entering.”

With the way she winces. I’m not convinced that’s the entire story.

“Then you will both be familiar with these.” The magician dangles a pair of handcuffs for everyone to see. “State-issued handcuffs to bond any common criminal.”

They look like the real deal, but I imagine some gimmick like a hidden button to override the locking mechanism.

Sensing where this is going, I nudge Bailey and say, “Fascinating. But we should probably get going. The clock is ticking.”

Eyes bright with amusement, trying not to move her lips, she says, “Come on, this will be fun. They’re obviously not real. He’s just going to cuff us together, wave his hands, they’ll disappear, everyone will gasp, and we’ll be on our way.”

My stomach clenches in the same way it has whenever I’ve been presented with a potentially dangerous idea—bungee jumping, tractor races, piglet stealing. By the way, I returned it to Farmer Jones with a proper apology.

The magician slides the cuff around Bailey’s left wrist, clicking it into place. Turning to us, but loud enough for the growing audience to hear, he says, “Do you trust each other?”

“Sure! Hook us up!” Bailey thrusts her arm toward me .

But do I trust the magician? However, before I can object, the other cuff locks around my right wrist.

He demonstrates that they’re secure, wiggles his fingers to show that he does not have a key, and then says, “In one simple move—” Waving his hand across the links of the cuffs, my pulse skips and then plummets.

Nothing happens.

A consummate professional, he declares, “That was to show that no ordinary person has the ability to free these people from their bonds. No, it takes a special flick of the—” He motions again, and I expect the handcuffs to drop from our wrists, but they remain fixed, locked.

His smile wavers. My expression morphs into a scowl. Bailey grins as if this is all part of the act and she’s expecting the handcuffs to vanish like the coin from the box.

I know better … or at least, my stomach thinks it does.

The magician tries one more time, but we remain locked together.

“Ah, yes. I must’ve, um, we’ll just take a moment in my stall to—” Turning his back on the crowd, he ushers us inside and then closes the black curtain at our backs.

“Get these off, now,” I say, forgoing my manners and the word sir .

Bailey adds, “Please.”

Sweat dots his forehead. “I don’t know what went wrong. Yes, of course. Let me just find the key. It’s here—” He rifles through a little drawer in a wooden chest.

I glance at Bailey and her shoulders droop slightly. She mouths, I’m sorry .

No, it’s this clown show of a magician who should be sorry.

“Ah ha!” He says, pinching a small key between his fingers.

“Hurry up. We have a wedding to go to.” I belatedly realize I included myself when in reality I’m dropping Bailey off and then going, well, I’m not sure where. She must, though, having arranged my moving plans .

The magician slides the key into the lock, but again, nothing happens. Wrenching it from his fingers, I say, “Let me try.”

It doesn’t slide in easily, nor does it turn. I spot another pair of handcuffs on a nearby table and say, “Are those the trick cuffs?”

The magician’s face falls.

“And that would make these the real ones?” Bailey asks.

Taking charge, I speak simply, but forcefully. “Okay, so get the key, unlock these things, and we’ll get out of here.”

He slowly shakes his head. “The key is at home.”

“Then go get it or a hacksaw.”

Bailey jerks her hand toward her chest, taking mine with it. “You can’t amputate!”

“For the cuffs, Bailey.”

“Oh, right.”

“Home is five hours away. I only come to the flea market on weekends.”

“This gives new meaning to homeward bound,” Bailey mutters.

And this is the last detour I ever want to take.