Page 12 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
BAILEY
L ifting my arms, including Carson’s right wrist since we’re still cuffed, I say, “Welcome home.”
He winces.
“Sorry. I’m not used to us being attached. I mean—” I stop myself from babbling as my cheeks maintain the rosy hue they acquired when the magician accidentally mistook us for a couple.
Trying to focus on playing tour guide as we cruise through town—and not come off as a chaotic mess, cementing my spot in the Failure Box—I enthusiastically introduce Carson to my picturesque small hometown from the privacy of the Jeep.
He’s right, there’s no sense in advertising the handcuff situation any more than necessary. I’d like to get home, sneak into the garage, and find a tool to remove the cuffs, but I’m sure I’ve already been spotted and Mom is waiting for me with boyfriend bait.
We pass the sign for the Regent’s Hotel, which was booked for the wedding, so I got Carson a room at Hawk River Lodge by pulling a favor to get him a few nights there while waiting for his SkyBnB to be ready. Some of my family members happen to be occupying it for the wedding this weekend .
My stomach flips because, in our flurry of travel delays, I neglected to call the reception desk to inform them he wouldn’t be checking in on time and to hold the room.
But that’s a problem for later. I’m sure Denise kept the room for me.
She’s one of my top maple butter customers—well, she was before I had to shut down operations and get a “real” job.
However, I will be hosting a table at the Maple Fest next month, which gives me a ray of hope.
I point out some of my personal points of interest, including the brook where I loved to watch for otters when I was a kid and Falling for Books, where I’d spend all my maple syrup sales money.
When we stop at the intersection next to Maple Grounds, I try to see this place—Carson’s new home—through his eyes.
He blinks slowly as if looking for the road to continue and to be populated with the usual retail stores and chain restaurants. Cobbiton was a small town, but Omaha, with all its sparkly city life and sprawling suburban creature comforts, was less than fifteen minutes away without traffic.
“Take this left. What you need to understand about this place is that quaint and cozy isn’t just a way of life. It’s a competitive sport.”
He grunts.
“Over there, we host the farmers’ market. The fall festival is coming soon. That you won’t want to miss. Not that you’d be able to. Also, the arena is up here. Your new home away from home,” I try to say brightly, but I can tell he’s not sold.
“Is this it?”
“Oh, um, well, that corner is where I fell off my bike on the curb while trying to show off for Charlie Carlton in the fourth grade and skinned my knees.
Still have the scars. Also, the bistro has the best crepes outside Paris and the patio is always open, rain or shine.
I try to show him the tight-knit community I left but still love and find myself feeling both proud and slightly embarrassed by my roots .
I left here to pursue bigger goals and prove that I could be successful, but here I am, home again with nothing to show for myself.
I point out the rear of the Regent’s Hotel with its grand gardens. “That’s where the wedding reception will be hosted, just like it has been for everyone else in my family. But take this left.”
“Is that a tradition?”
“It’s a rule.”
“Another rule? Is it in your marriage hobby scrapbook?”
Sort of wishing I hadn’t shared that—but the ride was long and I was delirious from a cocktail of fatigue and caffeine—I press my hand to my face, taking his strong, solid hand with me. “Sorry. I’ll stop that.”
“I doubt it,” he says with a soft chuckle that suggests he’s less annoyed than I’d expect.
“I can’t believe I told you about that particular hobby. But no, it’s not in the scrapbook. While I do want to get married in the chapel, I’d like my wedding reception to be in my grandparents’ backyard, surrounded by maple trees. A fall wedding when the leaves turn ruby, amber, and gold.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“More like homespun.”
I sense his eyes on me and then they quickly shift back to the road.
“Oh, look, that’s my dream house.” We pass a modern farmhouse painted white with a broad front porch and dark gray trim.
“I thought we were going to your parents’ place.”
“We are, it’s just another mile in the opposite direction.”
“Then why are we way over here?”
“I just wanted to, um, give you a tour, so you could get your bearings.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Are you delaying?”
“No. Maybe. Just a little.” I pinch my fingers together .
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it will be,” I mutter.
I direct Carson and we pass the Lodge. “That’s where you’ll be staying. As soon as we get these cuffs off, I’ll let them know you’ll be on your way.”
“Thanks for arranging everything for me.”
“Of course. Just doing my job.” I shake my wrist lightly. “This will stay off the performance review, right?”
“Hmm. But it’s such a good story to tell,” Carson teases, echoing my comment earlier.
Tipping my head back on the seat and wishing I were staring at the sky instead of the Jeep’s cloth ceiling, I have sudden and severe second thoughts about going to the wedding. “Actually, turn around. We’ll drive to the magician’s house, get the key, and then?—”
“Bailey, are you stalling?”
Guilty. As. Charged … of loving the way Carson says my name.
Despite his statement, there’s no accusation.
No, do better, be better, try harder. Just a soft roll of the B , a drop when he combines the A and the I , and then he tickles the L with his tongue, teasing out the rest, in a way that’s probably indecent in this county.
“What are you worried about? You said it’s just a little family gathering.”
I mutter, “That’s what we call weddings and you haven’t met my family.”
I sneak a peek at his profile and trace his strong jaw, lined with a nice dispersion of stubble as if it’s intentional rather than a result of our long travel days; the manly hollows of his cheeks, and the way his lips curve beneath the ledge of his perfectly proportioned nose.
A girl could really swoon if she let herself believe that he was hers.
Bringing home a professional athlete was not in the planner and not on the itinerary, but we did discuss fake dating. Playing pretend wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Optimism collides with desperation, and I ask, “Remember that conversation we had earlier?”
“We’ve been together for like twelve hours. Which one?”
“The one when you said your agent thought it might be a good idea for you to find a stable girlfriend.” I don’t exactly fit the criteria, but I did star as Eliza Doolittle in my junior high school production of My Fair Lady .
Accurately placing that particular conversation, he adds, “And when you considered bringing a successful guy home to get your matchmaking mother off your back.”
He was listening carefully. “Yes, that one!” I exclaim, jerking our joined hands again. “Sorry.”
“If you’re asking me to play along?—”
“It’s not the worst plan.”
“It wouldn’t be right,” he says with finality.
Blinking sense into focus, I reply, “Right. Of course not. I’m just goofing around.”
Pointing—with my non-handcuffed hand—toward a stately white colonial home with two columns framing the red front door, I say, “That’s where I grew up.
When I was a kid, I wondered if the black shutters actually worked.
After acquiring a ladder and crowbar, I concluded they do not, requiring me to find some duct tape and unsuccessfully try to reattach one. ”
Carson chuckles and pulls to the side of the road behind several other cars, meaning the gang is all here, awaiting my arrival, if only so they can guilt-trip me about being late and missing last night’s festivities.
I grip the passenger side door. Carson tugs my wrist in the other direction as he gets out, stretching our arms long between us.
“Come on. You’re going to be late.”
I shake my head slowly, rubbing the back of it against the seat rest, knowing it’s probably making my rat’s nest of travel hair worse. I’ve never seen an actual rat’s nest, so for all I know, they could have tidy little hidey holes, but either way, I wouldn’t mind crawling down one right about now.
Carson leans into the vehicle and with a wicked grin, says, “It’ll be fun.”
“Haha. First, a magician. Now a clown. Today is already a laugh riot.”
“It can’t get worse than us being nearly trapped in an elevator together, then locked in an airplane bathroom, and now handcuffed.”
He has a point, but was it really that bad?
However, even though we did spend an inordinate amount of time trapped in an airplane bathroom, I do have to use it now, and that’s something I’ll be doing alone, thank you very much.
“Yes, Carson. It can get worse. Let’s just say that the Porters are an experience.” I’m not sure he hears me as I clumsily climb out of the Jeep.