Page 17 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

I ’ve faced my share of intimidating situations—NHL playoffs, career-threatening injuries, and even Gabe, my agent, when I once missed a media appearance. But nothing prepared me for the hostage situation that is the Porter-Haines wedding.

Since arriving at Bailey’s childhood home, I’ve slowly started to understand why she needed backup.

I didn’t officially agree to be her date until we took the detour to the overlook.

She looked so beautiful against the backlit setting sun.

I didn’t want anyone else to dim her light.

If I could do anything to help, I promised myself right then and there that I would.

Conveniently, being her plus one isn’t hard.

The woman is easy to appreciate, to admire, to adore. If you ask me, Taggert got the bum deal.

I’ve found myself naturally sliding into the role after having fielded questions flying from all directions. We still have to get our entire story straight, but the disbelief from the women about her dating someone … someone like me … has been unmistakable and unacceptable.

I couldn’t very well let her drown in the sea of skepticism.

For the last few hours, I’ve shaken hands, tried to memorize names, and deflected personal questions—that I do with practiced ease. Through it all, I keep Bailey close, noticing how she grows more withdrawn with each interaction and shrinks with every veiled judgment spoken.

When we met the bride and groom and I played along, the grateful look she flashed me made my ribs rattle.

I can’t help but think that it’s tied to what happened at the lookout point. The kiss … the briefest of kisses. Offering ourselves. Claiming each other. But was that just bottled up from traveling together? Exhaustion? Or something else?

However, the conviction in Bailey’s voice when she said, I’m yours, Carson hit me like a body check on the ice—unexpected and breathtaking.

The way she looks at me, slightly bashful like she’s having thoughts she shouldn’t—small confined-spaces thoughts and mountaintop vista thoughts—sends a flare through me. When her soft skin touches mine, crackling races across every cubic inch of my body.

But my mind knows better and I remember this is all for our cover story. This is just for the weekend.

The ceremony was short, though I spent most of it watching Bailey rather than the bride and groom.

She maintained a perfect smile, but I noticed how she tensed whenever the officiant mentioned love or commitment.

When the groom recited his vows, staring as if in a trance at his bride, Bailey’s fingers dug into my arm.

As the newlyweds conclude their first dance, tugging at the collar of my button-down for some ventilation, I whisper to Bailey, “I seem to recall you mentioning that this was just going to be a little family gathering.”

“It’s college football season—and five of my cousins play—so yes, only about half of my family are in attendance because the others had to show support.”

I’m from the South and am used to relatively large families, but I’ve done a rough headcount of at least two hundred people who claim to be related and can no longer tell the difference between aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, ones related by marriage, cousins, and the number of times removed.

Fiddling with the hem of her dress, Bailey says, “I’m well aware that it’s a lot.”

“There are fewer people at some of my games.”

The corner of her mouth crests with a smile. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Might be with this new team,” I mumble.

“You clean up nice.” Bailey straightens my tie as if responsible for it since she’s the one who originally did it after my quick shower at her parents’ house … and our little role-play at the vista point.

My gaze travels from her hands along the delicate curve of her neck. Her maple-blonde hair is swept up and I force myself to look away before our gazes lock.

“You sound surprised,” I reply, trying to ignore how my pulse quickens when her fingers brush against my skin. “Did you expect me to wear hockey gear?”

She smiles, and the slight stain of her lipstick makes her mouth look soft and inviting, a thought I immediately try to dismiss.

The notion of kissing Bailey crossed my mind when we were alone on the hilltop with nothing but nature surrounding us and the town a miniature village in the distance.

Then it just sort of happened like it was inevitable.

I spot the groom. “So what was the deal with you and Tagg?”

“I wasn’t part of his five-year plan,” Bailey says with a forced casualness.

I place my hand on the small of her back. “His loss is my gain.”

She shoots me a questioning look. “Carson, when we’re alone, you don’t have to—” but before she can finish her sentence, Odette and her fiancé approach all hoity-toity, as my granddaddy would say about snobby people who keep their noses in the air.

The sisters look alike, but whereas Odette is all sharp edges and angles, Bailey is soft and gentle .

“So, Carson,” Odette begins, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You’re part of the new hockey team in town. It must be difficult to start over.”

“It’s an opportunity,” I reply, finding Bailey’s hand. “And I have an excellent tour guide.”

Bailey sputters, “We just drove through town. Nothing special.”

“Exactly. Nothing special.” Odette wags her finger between us and narrows her eyes. “Should we be concerned that this is a conflict of interest? An NHL employee and a player? I’m an attorney in Chicago and I suggest you two be careful. Maybe consult HR because this has lawsuit written all over it.”

I feel Bailey tense beside me. “It’s not like that.”

Odette wears a prim smile and looks me up and down before her gaze lands accusingly on her sister. “I didn’t think so.”

I’m about to defend our fake relationship when the DJ announces the dance floor is open. The bride and groom gesture that everyone join them.

Bailey looks at Tori and Tagg, not with regret, but like she wants her hobby to become more of a lifestyle so she doesn’t have to deal with her naysaying family alone. Thankfully, Odette and what’s-his-face fiancé stalk off.

I offer my hand. “Dance with me.”

“You dance?” Bailey’s eyebrows bounce as if she’s genuinely surprised.

“I have hidden talents beyond checking opponents into the boards and sinking shots.”

She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. “All right, hockey star. Show me what you’ve got.”

I lead her to the dance floor just as the music shifts to something slow. Without missing a beat, I pull her close, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers. Her surprise is evident in the little yelp that escapes her pink lips.

Her eyes lift to mine and hover for a long moment, making me swallow hard.

Clearing my throat, I say, “My mom insisted on lessons before my first high school team formal. She said no son of hers was going to look like a ‘hulking goon’ with two left feet. Plus, square dancing and line dancing were kind of a big deal where I come from.”

Bailey laughs, relaxing slightly in my arms. “Your mom sounds like a force of nature … like the women in my family.”

“She worked three jobs to keep me in hockey. She’d like you. Being far away, we’re not as close as we used to be.”

With my grandparents gone, my family is minuscule compared to the Porters and although I imagined building my own with Charlene, she wasn’t overly interested in having kids. I reckoned we’d figure it out, but oddly, I wonder what’s in Bailey’s marriage scrapbook.

She and I sway in comfortable silence for a moment. Bailey is warm against me, her head barely reaching my shoulder. She smells like vanilla and maple, a scent I’ve come to crave.

“Everyone is watching us,” she murmurs.

“Let them watch.”

“My mother probably thinks we’re announcing our engagement next,” she says with a nervous laugh.

“Maybe we should put on a show.”

“Be careful what you say and don’t give her any ideas.”

“Would that be so terrible?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

She pulls back slightly to look at me, confusion in her eyes. “Carson, we’re pret—” She stops herself in case anyone is listening, never mind watching. But then tries again. “This is?—”

Backpedaling because she’s right. This is pretend, fake, I can’t let myself forget the rules we made and quickly say, “I know what this is. I’m just doing my part.”

Something flickers in her expression—disappointment?—before she nods. “Right. We didn’t make an official agreement, contract, or anything.”

“But we created an outline, rules. ”

As we continue dancing, I spot Tagg watching us from across the room. On impulse, I pull Bailey closer.

“Your ex is staring,” I whisper against her hair.

She stiffens. “Ignore him.”

“He looks like he regrets his life choices.”

“Carson ...” she says as if I’m tempting her with a chocolate sundae and she’s the one wearing white.

“I’m just making observations.” I spin her gently, bringing her back to me with more flourish than necessary. “If I were him, I would.”

Her eyes meet mine, searching. “Would what?”

“Regret letting you go.”

She looks at me, eyes searching as if trying to detect the punchline to a joke.

The music changes to something faster, breaking the moment. Bailey steps back, her cheeks flushed. “Maybe we should get some air.”

Before I can respond, she’s weaving through the crowd toward the exit. I follow, catching up to her outside the ballroom.

“Bailey, wait. I’m sorry.”

She turns to me, arms wrapped around herself in the cool evening air. “For what? I’m the one who practically shackled you to me and dragged you into this fiasco.”

“That was the magician and your mother, but I meant for overstepping. I’m sorry; this isn’t real.” As I speak, I’m not sure where to put the punctuation.

She laughs, but it sounds hollow. “That’s just it, Carson. You’re being the perfect fake boyfriend. So perfect that my entire family is convinced we’re madly in love.”

She shivers and rubs her arms. Without hesitating, I remove my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

“My mother cornered me in the bathroom earlier to tell me what a catch you are.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It is when it’s not real,” she whispers .

Right. Pretend. Like a deke, a fake-out move in hockey.

Bailey runs a hand through her hair, dislodging a few strands from her updo. “On the family text chat, they’re commenting on how they’ve never seen me look at anyone the way I look at you. My collective family, who thinks everything I do is a disaster, believes I’m genuinely falling for you.”

My heart does something strange at her words. “And that bothers you?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know. It bothers me that I can’t tell—” She drops her head. “The problem is when this unravels, never mind the ‘Failure Box,’ I’ll be serving a life sentence of humiliation. They’ll never let me live it down. I didn’t think this through.”

The words are each like rubber bands, stretched tight and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing, how vulnerable she looks in the soft light overflowing from the reception.

“Bailey—” I begin, but we’re interrupted by her mom suddenly appearing as if summoned by the awkwardness of this situation.