Page 19 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
BAILEY
I have my Southern gentleman on the dusty road dream, only instead of him pressing his hand lightly to my back and drawing me close, I feel like I’m falling. When I wake up, I’m on the floor. The air mattress deflated overnight and it takes me a moment to realize why I’m not in my bed.
Neither is Carson.
Sitting up, I look around for details to determine whether I’ve been imagining the last forty-eight hours.
The dress I wore to the wedding is hanging on the back of my bedroom closet door. One of Odette’s high-heeled forms of sisterly abuse is wedged under my thigh. I tug it out and recall Carson carrying me to the Jeep.
That happened, right?
This means the wedding did and our pretending to fake date, which was a vague whirlwind of my overwhelming family, being handcuffed by a novice magician, travel detours …
Sitting up, I gasp. Carson Crane cannot see me like this. Scrambling out of a snarl of bedding, I dash to the bathroom.
My brother, Xander, calls my morning look Bog Monster. Harsh, but not entirely inaccurate. By some act of grace, the bathroom is unoccupied and I hop in the shower .
There, time slows a moment with flashes of Carson looking at me with curiosity, certainty, and something like longing, crossing the wires in my brain and making them spark.
I turn off the tap and make quick work of getting ready, putting on a pair of jeans and my favorite checkered shirt. This one, my brother says, looks like a picnic tablecloth. After giving myself Dutch braids, I slide in a pair of hoop earrings, swipe on some lip gloss, and destroy the evidence.
Carson will never know that he woke up in the same room as a lagoon beast. Unless … unless he saw me, was terrified, and ran away with fright.
When I get downstairs, the Maple Falls Gazette is open and the headline Mystery Heir Threatens Town’s Tranquil Ways catches my eye. I read:
Tongues are wagging up and down Main Street after the most recent town council meeting unveiled what many are calling a crisis far worse than when the Centennial Time Capsule went missing.
According to sources, Alexander MacDonald, previously unknown to Maple Falls residents, has emerged as the heir to the sprawling lands in and around our beloved community. His representative, Jeremy Hunt Esquire, is in town to “Lock things down.”
MacDonald, a man described by Councilwoman Burke as probably having “City shoes and deep pockets,” allegedly intends to transform our rural landscape into a place for modern living.
“We need $2.5 million to protect our way of life,” announced Ashlyn Thompkins, the mayor’s daughter. “Every maple leaf and shop on Main Street depends on it.”
The meeting erupted into a flurry of fundraising suggestions, with Councilman Mitchell surprisingly voicing support for MacDonald’s vision, causing more than a few raised eyebrows and one overturned thermos of apple cider.
The more colorful proposals to raise the necessary funds include the newly adopted Ice Breakers hockey team offering to host a bachelor auction.
“Six-foot-two of goalie on the auction block!” exclaimed an enthusiastic Mary-Ellen McCluskey, while others proposed a wet t-shirt contest at Maple Fest. More than a few cheeks were as red as the potted mums on the front steps of the town hall.
As the meeting adjourned, a cadre of concerned citizens urged residents to check between couch cushions and empty their piggy banks. Kay Cagle commented, “Every penny matters.”
The next fundraising committee meeting will be held on Thursday at Falling for Books, directly after this month’s romance book club, where they’re discussing the novel ‘Heirs and Heartbreaks.’ A coincidence? Let’s hope not.
Before I can process what this could mean, Carson enters the kitchen from the side door, glistening with sweat and smiling.
He was running all right and Margaret, the dog, is at his heels like she just had the best day of her life—my parents aren’t big on giving her long walks and certainly not runs.
While the dog happily and sloppily laps water from the metal bowl, Carson says, “Good morning. You’re up early.”
The kitchen seems to shrink with his presence. Carson in workout clothes is a different kind of devastating than Carson in a suit. The former is all raw power and vitality, the latter polished charm. Both versions make my heart go haywire.
“Good morning,” I echo. “The time difference gets me every time. Are you an early bird?”
Way to sound like a dork, Bailey.
“I used to take every opportunity to sleep in, but over the summer, I got into a routine of an early morning run when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you sleep poorly? I’m sorry. That mattress is the same one I’ve had since I was a kid.”
He chuckles and grabs a water bottle from the fridge. “Slept like a champ. You?”
I consider mentioning the deflated air mattress, but don’t want to bring any attention to the state of my morning hair, the drool, or the greasy sheen I tend to wake up with in case he glimpsed it.
“Like a princess on a pea.” I move to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear but stop at the sound of his laugh as warmth crackles through my body.
“You mentioned that I have a meeting with the new team today?” he asks.
While the array of coffeecake and other breakfast staples my mom keeps on hand when we have company is tempting, I’d rather we avoid further interaction (humiliation).
I just have to hook Carson up with a place to stay and he can forget all about his close encounter with my family.
Problem solved. I tell them he’s busy with the team and soon the NHL will ship me off to another field office, far from here. No harm done.
My stomach pinches. “I was thinking of grabbing breakfast. There’s a place in town that makes crepes, as well as the diner that offers pancakes that you’ll crave for the rest of your life.”
He takes a swig of water, his throat working as he swallows.
“Pancakes I’ll crave for the rest of my life? That’s a bold claim.” He sounds downright skeptical.
I busy myself with the coffee maker, needing something to do with my hands because he’s sure to want to wash himself of the mess I’ve made of his weekend. “It’s true.”
He crosses the room, coming closer. I catch his scent which is still fresh and masculine, despite the morning run. By the way my pulse races, I reconsider the coffee—no need to get more jittery.
Voice low, smooth, and smoldering with that Southern accent, he says, “Bold claims require a thorough investigation.”
I look up to find him watching me, something playful in his expression.
I tuck my hair behind my ear again. “Unless you need to get back on your nutrition program for the team.”
“I think I can afford one more cheat meal.” He looks me over like I’m hard to resist.
Or it could be that he’s thinking about pancakes.
Belatedly realizing that having breakfast with a player isn’t in my job description and a breakfast date wasn’t part of the fake relationship arrangement, I say, “Besides, you need proper fuel before facing the lion’s den.”
“I thought the Ice Breakers’ team mascot was Otto the otter.”
“The otter’s den doesn’t sound as powerful or intimidating.”
“Should I be intimidated?”
Shifting from foot to foot, I say, “No, of course not, but aren’t you a little nervous that everyone is going to be sizing you up?”
Leaning against the counter, close enough that I can see the distinct flecks of blue and green in his eyes, Carson says, “We’re all new, so we’ll all be sizing each other up.”
His gaze trails from my eyes, toward my mouth, and all the way down to my bare feet.
His smile deepens as if he likes what he sees. “What color is that?”
For once, my toenail polish isn’t chipped. “Midnight Apple, I think it’s called.”
“Or dangerous thoughts,” he says in such a low rumble that I almost don’t hear.
But my body registers how he steps closer, the warmth of him tangible in a way that makes my stomach fluttery.
I notice a small scar above his left eyebrow and then skim the sweep of his lashes, the slope of his nose, and come to a stop at his lips.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I’m not ready to name. Then his phone beeps, breaking the spell.
“That’ll be the team manager,” he says, checking the screen. “I’d better take this call and then shower. I’ll be quick. I want those pancakes you promised.”
“Sounds good,” I say, suddenly looking forward to this day more than I should.
He steps outside while I sit down with a coffee and remind myself that, technically, I’m working from home. Everything that’s happened between us—the little lingering moments, the raw discussions about our previous relationships, the fake one we walked backward into—can’t mean anything.
Carson doesn’t believe in love.
He is my client and I’m his PAL.
Whatever sparks I thought existed last night were in my imagination.