Page 13 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
BAILEY
T aking a deep breath, I manage to get to the side door before my legs stop cooperating. Voices rise and fall from inside along with the faint strains of a sports game. Probably college football.
“Although hockey got pretty big here, my dad is a huge Huskies fan. If you root for the Oregon Ducks, maybe don’t mention it.”
Carson’s chuckle is warm. “I wouldn’t know my canines from my waterfowl when it comes to college football.”
Squeezing my eyes shut because they’re going to notice us out here, I draw a deep breath and prepare myself. “They’re going to love you.”
And I cannot tell them that he’s my boyfriend, even though I kind of sort of want to.
Be strong, Bailey .
“Sweetie pie,” Mom shrieks when I enter the kitchen.
She wraps me in a hug and because Carson and I are connected, he’s close.
So close, I can feel his heat like a tropical afternoon in Tahiti, imagine his strong arms embracing me, his breath tickling my ear during our fantasy honeymoon—a far better reason for a trip than taking a sick day to escape my life.
But these aren’t things I should be thinking about as my mother looks me up and down.
“You’ve gotten too thin. That city life is not agreeing with you. I’m so glad you’re home and we can—” Her smile lifts and then lowers when she sees Carson, followed by our joined wrists.
“Mom, this is Carson. Carson, meet my mother, Taffy Porter.”
He extends his right hand, cuffs and all, and says, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
My mother’s wide eyes travel from the metal attaching us together, up his arm, to his broad shoulders, to his mouth, speaking with that deep, rich Southern accent as if instantly mesmerized.
Me too, Mom. Me too.
Her eyelashes do a weird, fluttery thing. “The pleasure is mine.” Then she mutters something about canceling the blind date with Wilber Wakashan and dinner with Ian Sharpe. The first one kicked me in the shins in third grade and the second spread a rumor that I had zits on my butt in eighth.
“What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?” Mom asks our guest.
“Hockey,” I blurt. “Carson was just picked up by the Ice Breakers.”
“Oh, it’s so exciting to have our very own sports team. Everyone is talking about it. Bailey here worked for an athletic organization once?—”
“I still do, Mom. The NHL.”
“Oh, that’s what it’s called. I lose track. You’ve had so many jobs.”
“Just three in my professional career.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
But my mother doesn’t hear as Margaret, our overly enthusiastic golden retriever, bounds our way.
After we greet the dog as she spins circles around us, tail thwacking everything, Mom parades us into the front room, where I find several aunts, uncles, cousins, and spouses visiting while they wait to head to the chapel. Notably, Uncle Frank is absent.
“Looks like you got yourself into a pickle,” Aunt Doris says, eyeing the handcuffs with concern.
I try to explain what happened with the magician, but they all talk over me, speculating about this particular pickle. It’s no use trying to give accurate details over the cacophony. They won’t listen, anyway. Instead, I holler, “Does anyone know where Uncle Frank is?”
Aunt Bianca, his wife, says, “He’s away on a work retreat. Won’t be back until next weekend. The stinker got out of this wedding by the skin of his teeth. Said the hunting trip was required of all law enforcement officers.”
Over my shoulder, to Carson, I mouth, Sorry .
Brow pinched, I cannot tell whether his expression is one of horror, confusion, or amusement. Maybe a combination of all three.
I wave hello to everyone while my mother introduces Carson. “He’s a hockey player.”
The uncles who were snoozing while the aunts and cousins gossiped instantly crowd around him as if hoping the glow of greatness rubs off on them as they pepper him with questions.
For now, I’m forgotten, but I overhear my mother say, “She finally found someone successful.”
I’m about to correct them and explain that it’s not like that when my arm yanks in the opposite direction as Carson and I accidentally close-line a cousin who was probably racing to the cookie jar in the kitchen. It’s always full, even though my siblings and I have moved out.
Though, technically, this is still my primary place of residence since my job requires so much travel and the league puts me up in short-term rentals or extended stay suites.
“Jordan, are you okay? Sorry! We’re—” I lift up Carson and my arms, reminding me of a high school project when we had to carry around five-pound bags of flour for a week for health class— though I’m pretty sure his toned arm weighs twenty pounds or more.
All eyes turn to us, filled with questions and some with accusations.
The ten-year-old hardly breaks stride as he races down the hall. The floor squeaks in the place it always has, telling me he’s making a run for the cookies while the adults are distracted.
Odette, with hair as straight as a pin and dressed in a sleek red gown, appears with one hand propped on her hip and presents it in such a way that makes her engagement ring sparkle. “What do we have here?”
“Bailey! You haven’t seen your sister’s ring yet. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Mom asks, holding out Odette’s hand for everyone, especially me, to see.
“I saw the pictures.”
One of my aunts exclaims, “It’s HUGE!”
Yes, it is huge and very shiny. However, Damian, her fiancé, is not.
Standing next to Carson, he looks like he was passed over at gym class for the dodgeball team.
His wire glasses and snooty arrogance hide the fact that he’s rather dull.
His hobbies probably include a toe cheese collection and obeying my sister’s every demand.
“Isn’t it amazing?!” Odette says, making twinkle fingers.
One of the uncles asks, “Damian, which kidney did you have to sell to afford that?”
My mother says, “Don’t be silly, Lloyd. My soon-to-be son-in-law works in finance. He’s loaded.”
My sister asks, “Bailey, how’s your little maple syrup shop going? Have you branched out beyond the farmers’ market?”
I shrink into the place where dreams go to die. “Remember, I had to put that on hold?”
As if not missing a beat, Carson says, “There’s potential there, though. I’ve heard talks about securing a partnership with hospitality and featuring her stuff at the arena. ”
My throat feels like I just tried to drink a gallon of gasoline. What is he talking about?
Carson continues, “It’s a VIP product for VIP people.”
I slowly blink at him, wishing I could download his thoughts into my brain. When that doesn’t happen, I opt to play along until I figure out the game. Clearing my throat, I say, “These are just possibilities.”
“Promising possibilities,” he adds.
Odette’s eyebrow sharpens. “That’s a surprise, but not quite the same as managing a law firm.”
Feeling all eyes on me, I want to hide behind my grandmother’s apron, but I’m too big now, being a grown woman and all. I have to show them that I can stand on my own two feet. “But it is building off our grandfather’s legacy. That’s the kind of thing I want to be known for.”
Mom nods as if she agrees with that in theory, but it’s not going to give her content to share with her friends when they humble brag about their esteemed children.
Wearing a self-satisfied smile, my sister says, “Let’s hope this one sticks and not just because maple syrup is sticky.”
Everyone guffaws as if she’s our resident comedian. The only funny bone in my sister’s body is her elbow.
I have the distinct feeling that it was a mistake to come back. It was easier to forget all my failures from far away.
Heavy footfalls approach and my father’s familiar voice calls, “Is that my sweetie pie!?”
Dad opens his arms to hug me—he gives great hugs—but Mom says, “Careful, Phil. She’s all chained up.”
From the peanut gallery, an uncle comments on the old ball and chain.
Once again, the spotlight shines on the fact that Carson and I are handcuffed and everyone speculates. The stories get wilder by the minute. So are the comparisons in hushed tones about Odette and her husband, and my Southern gentleman and me .
Aunt Bianca says, “It’s about time. Bailey is nearly past her sell-by date.”
Carson has demonstrated that he’s a good listener. I just hope he didn’t hear that, or my cousin Savanna commenting to Catie on how good Carson smells. Catie is full moon-eyed as she not-so-discreetly budges up to him and inhales.
Meanwhile, Dad peppers him with questions about the new hockey team while Mom shares embarrassing stories about my past “phases” and career fails.
I want to drag him away and run for cover, but because of the handcuffs, we’d end up taking half the assembly with us like a dragnet.
Neither one of us can get a word in edgewise until my father appears again, this time revving a chainsaw.