Page 11 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

N ostrils flaring, I try to steady my breath. “Can you pick the lock?”

Biting her lip, Bailey says, “If these are real handcuffs, they’re not easily pickable.”

“You know this, how? Oh, right, your crime of passion.”

“What are we going to do?” She stares at the ceiling and then says, “My uncle Frank is a police officer. He’ll be at the wedding. He can unlock the cuffs. Problem solved.” She tries to dust her hands off, but yanks my arm with her.

“Which means I have to drive in these things.”

“Forget ten and two o’clock. You only keep one hand on the wheel, anyway. If you need help with anything, it’ll be like teamwork. We can do this and we should probably go because I shouldn’t be late for the wedding.”

Glaring at the magician, I say, “Thanks a lot.”

In a much friendlier tone, Bailey says, “This is a memory in the making. Thank you.”

To be fair, the man looks apologetic and gives us a flyer for his big show next Friday night. I toss it in the bin on the way out.

Toting all Bailey’s flea market finds in our free hands, when we reach the Jeep, she automatically walks toward the passenger side.

“I think you’re better off climbing through. There’s no way I can make it over without contorting myself and I’ve had enough sideshows for one day.” I point to the driver’s side.

She looks me up and down, eyes warm as if they’re eating me up, and says, “Oh, right. Didn’t think of that.”

“Or going to the bathroom.”

Her lips pinch together.

“Eating.”

“I’ll feed you like a baby bird.” The woman dares to giggle.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

She climbs over the center console, yanking my arm with her.

“Let’s not injure the hockey player. I kind of need my hands, wrists, and rotator cuffs intact.”

“Sorry.”

It takes a little bit of configuring to get settled, but soon we’re back on the road.

“So breaking and entering, huh?” I ask, referring to her arrest.

“Jeff refused to give my sweater back. Technically, it was his sweater first, but he said I could have it.”

“Seems a little big to put in your wedding scrapbook.”

“That is a collection of ideas for my marriage. But I thought if he saw how cute he said I always looked while wearing it, he’d want to give us another chance.” Bailey shifts uncomfortably. “Anyway, he wasn’t the one. We hardly had anything in common.”

“Including an understanding of locked doors,” I tease.

“I learned my lesson. But my mother hasn’t. The second I step foot into Maple Falls, she’ll launch into full matchmaker mode.”

“Was she arrested for fixing you up with someone?”

“No, but she did arrange the blind date with Jeff and came up with Operation Sweater Retrieval. To this day, she regularly asks me if we still talk and that I should try to give it another chance because he was a successful businessman in corporate trade.”

“So she’s the reason you got arrested?”

“I enthusiastically went along with it just like when we agreed to put on these things.” She lifts her arm and plops it down on the center console with a clink of metal.

“But yes, my mother hatched the plan that I go to Jeff’s house, put on the sweater, wait for him to get home, and then flit around looking adorable so he couldn’t resist me. ”

I roll my eyes, but the conversation rolls easily between us for the remaining couple of hours. She tells me how her family thinks of her as being flaky and unfocused.

Staring at her lap, Bailey says, “They like to put people in boxes.”

“Like the magician? I’m not doing anything like that ever again.”

Smiling enthusiastically, she peers up at me. “It was fun.”

I glance at our wrists. “How is being chained to me fun?”

“It’ll be an entertaining story to tell. But about the box thing. It’s for easy identification purposes.” Her eyes dim as if she’s about to outline guidelines that she didn’t agree to. “My sister Odette is in the ‘Perfect Box.’ She doesn’t just exceed expectations, she demolishes them.”

“I take it she took a gold at the family achievement Olympics.”

“Exactly. I didn’t even sign up, but here I am, coming in last place.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“My cousin Renee is in the ‘Success Box.’ When she sets her mind on something, she bulldozes every obstacle in her path.”

I say, “Birthday presents belong in boxes, not people.”

Her cheeks tease a smile. “True, but I don’t make the rules.”

“According to this ridiculous life sentence in solitary confinement, what box are you in? ”

She outlines a square with her finger. “The ‘Chaotic Disaster Box,’ it’s a subset of the ‘Failure Box’ after my uncle Larry showed up at a family gathering with an emotional support python. There’s one other member of the Porter family in here with me, but we don’t talk about him.”

“Bailey, you work for the National Hockey League.”

Her shoulders lift and lower on an exhale. “The label on the box is written in permanent marker.”

“You do realize that boxes are made of cardboard, right?”

“These are the reinforced kind with steel staples and stuff. They’re really tough to break down for recycling.”

I chuckle. “What box would they put me in?”

“You’re a professional athlete. You’d be in the ‘Perfect Box’ with Odette.”

I haven’t met Bailey’s sister, but in many ways, she sounds like the opposite of the woman that’s slowly been revealed one hour at a time since the baked goods incident. If I got to choose, I think I’d rather be in a box with Bailey—she’s funny and refreshingly real.

But is also an NHL employee and has a mind for marriage.

Then again, I know a thing or two about hiding who I really am from the world. Lately, I’ve been called a perfectionist, especially on the ice. But no one saw me the month early last summer when I went dark after I blew the season.

Giving my head a little shake, I say, “I don’t know, Bailey. You don’t seem like the kind of person who can be contained.”

Despite her wearing a coordinating business suit and keeping a planner, she seems like she has a creative, quirky streak that uses boxes to make something unique like a little office library for her coworkers to trade their favorite books for everyone to enjoy.

We pull off the highway at the Maple Falls exit. “Your hobbies include making maple syrup—that fits,” I say as we pass a wooden sign welcoming visitors to Maple Falls, with the words You’ll Never Want to Leave .

Bailey speaks the words, but instead of leave , she says, “Leaf.”

There are some maple leaves painted on it and I chuckle at the play on words.

She asks, “So what are your hobbies? You can’t say hockey since it’s your job.”

Hockey was on the tip of my tongue. “I play guitar.”

“I bet you have an amazing singing voice,” she says with a little dreamy wistfulness in hers. Like her marriage scrapbook includes a page with stickers or whatever that involves her future husband singing her a love song.

She points to a roadside sign for Shirley May’s Diner. “Let’s stop and get some pie.”

“Don’t you have a wedding to go to?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Her tone is flat, far away.

“And there’s this little matter.” I jiggle our wrists.

“Right and if we stopped there, in less than five minutes, the entire town would be speculating about whether we’re newlyweds who got a little too creative or fugitives on the run.”

“Why is that?”

“Mary-Ellen McCluskey has a big mouth.” Bailey claps her hands over hers. “That was uncharitable. I’m sorry. She just blabs. I mean, discusses people’s business.”

“So she’s the town gossip.”

I have a feeling Bailey has been the subject of rumors around Maple Falls. Unfortunately, I don’t think our current situation is going to keep her—or me—off Mary-Ellen McCluskey’s hit list or out of her family’s so-called boxes.