Page 23 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

A s Bailey climbs branches, tossing down apples for me to catch, Tiny circles below, barking happily. I feel more alive than I have in months.

“I found the prize apple!” she exclaims from a branch several feet above. She tells me her Pappa always challenged her to find the best apple in the orchard whenever they’d visit.

“You were right about the pancakes, so I trust you with this.” I hold out my hands to catch both the apple and her if necessary.

She nods, carefully making her way down. “Starting when I was nine, my grandfather taught me everything there is about this property and how to make it work for me, but I didn’t quite land on my feet.”

But she does now. Back on the ground, I don’t step away, standing close enough that I can smell the faint scent of vanilla maple that follows her everywhere.

I can’t help but think of her other hobby because the way she looks at me makes me wonder if we’re moving toward more than picking apples. The autumn air wraps around us and the wind rustles through the leaves overhead.

She takes a bite of the apple, her eyes closed. “Tastes like home.” Then she passes it to me and I try the most delicious and juicy piece of fruit I’ve ever eaten.

“Wow.” But the word comes out in a whisper because Bailey has captured my attention as a smile plays on her lips and her eyes dance with what I can only define as freedom and peace. Pancakes, apples, syrup, whatever she’s having, I want it too.

As we walk back, hands full of apples, Bailey gestures over her shoulder to the grove of maple trees. “That’s where it all starts. In late winter, we tap the trees. The sap runs when the nights are below freezing but the days warm up.”

We reach a rustic barn constructed of rough timber and a rusty corrugated metal roof.

She says, “And this is The Sugar Shack.”

Inside, a collection of traditional and modern equipment fills the dusty space.

“What am I looking at?”

“Where the magic happens. We get a really hot fire going in this box and then put the sap in this evaporator pan. Keeping it at a rolling boil, the syrup then flows over here.” She points to some measuring instruments and gauges and tells me about temperature and consistency, along with an apron, which I don’t think is the same as the one she wears while baking.

“Sounds pretty scientific.”

Bailey wears a proud little smile. Hooking her finger around an empty jug, she says, “Fun fact: it requires about forty gallons of sap to produce one of these.”

“Seriously? All that work for one jug of syrup?”

“That’s the price you pay for liquid gold.”

“No wonder you smuggled it into the diner.”

The Sugar Shack, deserted for the season, seems like an oddly lonely place until she laughs. I imagine this space heard plenty of that back when she’d sugar with her grandparents.

“This is a pretty amazing family business. Does everyone chip in to help during the tapping and sugaring season?”

“Not really. Some of them used to, but as I was saying, almost everyone has moved on or is busy. I was the only one left.” With a wobble in her voice, she adds, “This will be my first winter not tapping the trees. Nanna and I did it last year, but she can’t do it alone now.”

I assume this is because her job with the NHL takes her away from Maple Falls.

However, as Bailey continues the brief tour around the farm, her passion is infectious, and I find myself genuinely interested in the maple syrup process and the way her eyes light up when she talks about it. I’ll have to ask Asher about his family’s operation in Canada.

At sundown, we head into the farmhouse where smoke curls from the chimney. Tiny follows us inside. Her nails click on the hardwood floor and her tail swishes from side to side expectantly.

“Yes, Mommy is going to make you dinner. You’re a very good girl. So patient.”

“So Tiny is your dog? Why does she live here?”

“And very large, if you didn’t notice. I can’t exactly bring her along when I travel for work.”

“You must miss her.”

“Every day. She keeps Nanna company, though.” She eyes the other two lazy dogs. “As if she didn’t already have a full house.”

Having seen how much passion Bailey has for making maple syrup and how at home she is here, if I could snap my fingers and make her company a success, I would. It’s strange to want someone else’s dream so badly for them, I can feel it all the way down in the bottom of my chest.

She says, “Nanna has left for poker night, but I’m going to stick around and get started on making the maple butter for the fall festival. You probably have stuff to do too. Don’t feel bad if you want to leave.”

Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms in front of my chest. “But what if I wanted to stay? ”

Her eyebrows shoot up at the same time as Tiny’s ears point toward the ceiling.

With a shrug, I say, “I can help.”

In the next minutes, Bailey creates order from a scattering of ingredients. Her hands move with practiced precision as she measures, mixes, and stirs to thicken the maple syrup before adding the butter. I’m assigned to jar preparation, wiping them clean and lining them up for filling.

“We always use my grandfather’s syrup and my grandmother’s recipe cards,” she says, nodding toward a wooden box on the counter. “Handwritten. Some of them go back three generations.”

I flip through them carefully, noticing how the paper has yellowed, how different handwritings show the passing of time, of homespun knowledge.

“Do you have a favorite?” I ask.

“The classic maple butter. Well, technically, we start with making maple cream, which is when you boil out any remaining water from pure maple syrup. After it cools, you whip it with butter, resulting in a light, fluffy spread. But in between, exists a careful balance of temperature control because you don’t want it too thin or for it to crystallize. I make other flavors too.”

Listening intently, the room fills with the scents of autumn—apples, cinnamon, maple—and I’m fascinated as this colorful, chaotic woman who hides how scattered she can be behind schedules and planners transforms into a confident and passionate master of the kitchen.

She goes on, lit up by the topic. “For the custom flavors, I put my own spin on the classic, including apple cinnamon—I use apples from the orchard and dehydrate them, then slice them super small. Vanilla bourbon was Pappa’s favorite. Plus, there’s pumpkin spice and blueberry walnut.”

I admire her creativity, dedication, and skill, along with the graceful curve of her neck as she ties her hair back, the pink tint to her full lips, and the low-simmering, sweet but complex chemical reaction of the bubbling syrup and steam as it warms her cheeks.

“You know,” she says, glancing at me while she stirs, “I’ve always dreamed of having the brand go big. That VIP thing you were talking about would be amazing.”

“Why don’t you?”

Her shoulders tense slightly. “For one, there’s the shiny thing I chased instead. You know, my job with you and the team? I needed the stability, the regular paycheck. And hustling specialty foods is hard.”

“But it’s what you love.”

She looks up, meeting my eyes. “It’s a hobby now. It’s best that I accept that.”

Bailey has a little smudge of maple butter on her cheek from when she’d tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

Leaning in, I press my lips to it, to her soft skin. She goes still and then her lips tug with a smile as the sweet taste fills my mouth. Bailey’s eyes meet mine with the answer to my silent question.

Shifting positions, I press my lips to hers. The connection is immediate—there’s so much softness I’m afraid I’ll never surface. Maybe I don’t want to.

“I’ve been hoping to do this again, properly,” she whispers.

“Me too.”

It’s undeniably true, yet it feels dangerous.

I slide my palm to the nape of her neck, angling her head gently as I brush another kiss across her lips.

Pulling back to make sure we’re not crossing lines, pink splashes her cheeks as she looks up at me through lashes that flutter like butterfly wings.

Her freckles scatter across her cheeks like stars and in the glimmer of her eyes, I glimpse the entire universe.

“So you want to?” I repeat to be sure.

“Practice kissing?” Her expression is so sincere, so honest, I risk coming undone for her. One word and the fake could become real. All she’d have to do is say it .

However, I pull my mind back because that wasn’t the agreement. I want to answer differently, but say, “For the Bash, you know, just in case.”

For now, we will practice. We’ll see just how close we can get to the edge without tipping over.

Our lips meet again and the kiss is gentle, reverent even—a promise, not a demand.

Her lips are like candy against mine, cautious at first, then responding with a sweetness that makes my heart ache.

The kiss isn’t awkward, demanding, or rushed, but a tender exploration, a question and answer all at once.

When we part again, Bailey’s eyes dance with words unspoken, mirroring the same inside me.

“What if we start and we can’t stop?” she asks.

“What if I don’t want to?”

Tingles race through me as her fingers lace with mine. The simple touch ignites something deep inside. I lift my free hand to gently brush a strand of hair from her face, allowing my fingertips to trace the delicate curve of her jaw. Her eyelids flutter closed and a sigh escapes her lips.

I cup her face gently between my palms and I press my mouth to hers again. Her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, steadying herself as the world tilts around us. I can feel her heartbeat, or maybe it’s mine—they seem to have found the same rhythm.

There’s a newfound boldness in her mouth, moving with mine that tells me everything I need to know. Her fingers tug on my shirt, pulling me closer.

The kiss becomes hungry. The only solution is to go deeper. Her hands slide along my sides and up my back before twining in my hair. Mine grasp her closer if such a thing were possible.

Time stretches and twists and contorts, leaving me outside of it as long as Bailey’s lips are on mine.

The kiss intensifies as our inhales turn erratic. It’s like coming home to a place I’ve never been. Shivers skate across my skin as the current between us snaps and sparks .

When we part, both breathless, I resist the urge to swoop back in, to cover her in kisses from her temple to the curve of her neck. Instead, I rest my forehead against hers.

“That was...” she begins, voice trailing off as if words have abandoned her.

“Everything,” I finish for her, knowing with absolute certainty that nothing in my life will ever be the same again.

Hours later, rows of golden jars line the counter, steam fogging their lids as they cool and seal.

“Want to take a blondie for the road?” she asks quietly, her eyes never leaving mine.

“What if I don’t want to hit the road just yet?” The inquiry comes out before I can stop it.

In the silence that follows, I hear the soft click of the jars, one after another, sealing something sweet inside.

Bailey leans forward, just slightly, for another kiss. I angle myself in anticipation, but from the front porch, the sound of keys jingling, followed by dogs barking and her grandmother’s voice calling out, “Bailey! I’m back early! You’ll never believe who I ran into at poker night!”

“I’d better go.” It’s hard not to think about how today wasn’t part of our public appearances agreement, but I have to remind myself we’re living out one of the romance book tropes Bailey and her grandmother described, with emphasis on the fake part.

But what if this fiction we’re creating is becoming reality?