Page 30 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

BAILEY

T he perfect autumn weekend day unveils itself with a crisp morning mist that gradually burns away, revealing a pale blue sky contrasting with the vibrant yellows and oranges of big-leaf maples and towering Douglas firs dotted with crystals of morning dew.

The earthy scent of fallen leaves mingles with the cozy aroma of coffee and the fall harvest bounty—apples, pears, and pumpkins.

I pull on one of my favorite bulky sweaters, a knit hat, and lace up my boots, grateful that work aligned with being home this month, even though I wouldn’t have missed the Maple Fest for anything.

As I drive Pappa’s old pickup truck through town, I appreciate how every year, Maple Falls goes through a transformation that includes decorating the downtown area with pumpkin displays and festive wreaths, along with a scarecrow-making competition consisting of local teams. They’re then displayed on the light posts along Main Street.

This expands and explodes at the fair itself with games, craft booths, and food stalls.

Plus, there are hayrides, pumpkin carving, and of course, the square-dancing stage.

Let’s just say Carson got up there last night, but I wasn’t surprised by his skills.

However, the little thrills that shot through me every time he spun me around haven’t quit—putting all my trepidation about us on pause.

For the last couple of days, I’ve been running on caramel corn, scones slathered in whipped honey and raspberry jam, and apple cider doughnuts.

Suffice it to say, Maple Falls has some serious fun with this season and I’m thoroughly enjoying it even as the morning passes in a flurry.

Sweet Memories, my maple butter booth, has been swamped, especially after the local news crew did a short feature on “hometown products.” Not to be confused with the other article about a certain hockey player puckering up with a local girl.

Yeah, that would be yours truly. I’m still not sure what to make of it, but my sister was sure to email me the piece, under the auspices of cautioning me when really she just likes to make me squirm.

Me being me, I read and reread the article. It’s hard not to ignore how it highlighted the differences between Carson and me. Do we belong together or is this real-fake a mistake?

The Ice Breakers played their first game of the season and led three-zero against the Great Lakes Vikings. Asher got the first goal, Cade got the final one, and Carson slotted the one in the middle. Clément also already has a fan club. But Carson only had eyes for me.

Having been on the corporate side of the game for a while, I now understand the draw. Watching that stick in his hands was like a conductor leading a symphony. Poetic, I know, but it truly was a thing of beauty and skill.

However, I can’t get the team song “Ice Ice Baby” out of my head. It’s an earworm, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Believe it or not, the tune is now in the playlist rotation at the diner.

But there’s no time to pick apart the Bailey-Carson Pucker Up situation because I’ve already sold out of my whipped and infused apple cinnamon, vanilla bourbon, and pumpkin spice flavors. Thankfully, there’s plenty of the classic and the sleeper hit, blueberry walnut. But it’s only noon.

It might help that we’ve been giving out free samples of fresh sourdough slivers slathered in maple butter, along with blondies that Nanna made topped with the spread.

She and Mary-Ellen McCluskey went to her house to get some more stock for the table with the help of the arena’s custodial manager.

Word on Main Street is that Mary-Ellen has found love later in life with Murray. My romantic heart swoons.

Carson must be done with his daily shift at the Ice Breaker’s meet and greet table, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans, because he approaches with a purposeful stride.

Holding two cups of hot cider, he looks blindingly handsome in a flannel shirt and jeans.

The casual outfit is a stark contrast to the polished gentleman in a tux, the hockey star in uniform, when he’s wearing workout gear, or wedding attire, but all versions compete to see which can make my heart race fastest.

Taking the cup, our hands brush, reminding me of when we held hands on the way into the Bash, when we danced, and later when we kissed.

“Thanks for thinking of me.”

His grin reveals his dimple. “Of course.”

“Looks like you recovered from the dunk tank.”

“Clément is wicked when it comes to goal saves, but man, does Marcy have an arm on her.”

“Oh look, there she is now.”

With a wave, she comes over and asks, “How are you feeling after yesterday’s swimming lesson?”

Carson groans, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t remind me. That water was freezing.”

“At least you looked good in those trunks.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “I mean?—”

Marcy chuckles as Clément strides to her side .

Carson points an accusatory finger at him. “Nine shots and not a single hit. Some teammate you are.”

“I was building suspense. Creating dramatic tension.” Clément bobs his eyebrows.

“You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn,” Carson counters.

Marcy slides a jar of maple butter closer, examining the label with excessive interest. “The target wasn’t that big.”

“Yet you nailed it on your first try.” I smile at Marcy because, although the dunk tank was all in good fun, sometimes these hockey stars get a little too gloaty for their own good.

Clément mutters something in French, and although my two years of language arts in high school are rusty, I’m quite sure he’s not using an insult. Possibly the opposite in reference to Marcy.

“I’ve never seen anyone move so fast to hug someone who just dunked their teammate,” I say to Clément, raising an eyebrow.

His ears turn pink. “It was a congratulatory hug. Good sportsmanship.”

“Very sportsmanlike,” Carson deadpans. “Especially when the guy in the tank is on your actual team.”

“I got excited,” Clément says with a flourish.

“I think what we learned,” Marcy says, straightening a row of jars so all the labels face in the same direction, “is that accountants have hidden talents.”

Carson rolls his eyes. “And hockey players have fair-weather friends.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Except for Bailey here, who at least offered me a towel.”

“And now I’m offering you maple butter. It’s a nice addition to the cider,” I say, handing him a sample on a tiny wooden spoon.

“Sweeter than revenge. Though I haven’t forgotten that you laughed so hard you snorted.”

“I did not snort!” I protest .

“You absolutely snorted,” all three of them say in unison, and we dissolve into laughter that floats up to meet the swirl of autumn leaves above us.

Angel, who operates Happy Horizons Ranch here in Maple Falls, waves. She’s also in the battle to save the town and I’ve heard through the “Sap line,” aka Mary-Ellen and Nanna, that Marcy is looking for loopholes.

We chat briefly about the next town meeting and speculate about the mayor’s absence.

However, the moment they’re gone, my thoughts pick up exactly where they left off when Carson takes the last sip of his cider, dropping the cup from his lips.

I want to believe our kiss and connection were real, but I know better than to let myself be fooled.

Carson has a bright future ahead of him and I simply don’t see myself as part of it—not because I don’t want to be by his side, but because I’m me.

I let out a sigh and turn to a customer when she asks about maple butter storage.

But my thoughts repeatedly return to Carson, standing off to the side, chatting with Murray, who was tasked with cleaning shaving cream out of lockers back when I was in high school. Promise, I took no part in that prank.

Yesterday evening, in addition to the dunk tank, Carson and I enjoyed some of the festival activities, including a three-legged race.

We lost, which was a surprise since we’d unintentionally practiced being tied together with handcuffs.

We sampled pie and voted on our favorites for the baking contest, and contributed to the pumpkin carving display, as we contended with a town in New Hampshire for the most lit jack-o’-lanterns in one place.

“Shouldn’t you be resting before your big game tomorrow?” I ask, sipping the cider because it gives me a chance to pause and be with Carson while I can.

“Coach gave us the day off to prep, which means a workout, so rest? No. Rest is for the weak. That’s what he says. Besides, I promised your grandmother I’d help set up for the evening concert.”

I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or alarmed at how seamlessly Carson fits into my family as if he’s one of our own—the night before the festival opened, he helped Dad prep the ticket booth station.

He’s basically Mom’s surrogate son while Xander is in Connecticut, as she makes sure he takes extra helpings of everything because she says, He’s a growing young man .

No, he’s a fully grown man and that thought alone sends my cheeks up in flames.

Best of all, he doesn’t put up with my sister’s nonsense and retorts to her comments with good-natured banter.

Since the kiss on my front porch, which gave me major prom night vibes—at least the prom night I’d dreamed about—we’ve been dancing around each other, afraid to acknowledge what’s happening between us.

Instead, we’ve busied ourselves with preparations for the festival and Carson’s upcoming home game.

“What can I do to make myself useful?” he asks.

“I could use help restocking these shelves. The infused maple butters have been a hit.”

His smile makes his eyes crinkle. “The Maple Fest visitors have good taste and I’m convinced your maple syrup is addictive, so that probably helps. Soon, you’ll have people banging down your door to get some.”

“I wish.”

His gaze captures mine and his eyebrows lift like I can count on it. I have the silly thought that I can rely on him too, but as Nanna has always said, Don’t count your chickens before they hatch .

She pulls up in the farm truck, stacked with boxes filled with jars for us to unload.

While she makes the rounds, telling everyone about the concert tonight, for the next thirty minutes, Carson and I work side by side in comfortable silence, handing out samples and making change.

He proves to be an excellent salesman, charming older ladies and young women alike with stories about how my maple butter “Tastes like home.”

I have a sudden and serious sense of homesickness, but not for the place I’ve left, but for the future I fear I’ll never have as I travel from city to city, helping hockey players adapt to new teams and never returning to my roots for a substantial amount of time.

Stomach grumbling, it’s been hours since lunch and Nanna’s sourdough is merely crumbs as Carson and I take turns working the crowd, tag team style, telling a couple how great a jar of maple butter is for gift-giving and hosting for the upcoming holiday season.

They decide to buy three jars and I realize there’s only one left of that flavor.

“Do you sell online?” the woman asks.

Carson looks at me in question.

“I don’t even have a website. Not yet,” I add.

Good-naturedly, the man says, “You should. I only had a sample and this stuff seems addictive. Takes the ordinary butter and maple flavors to a new level.”

“That’s so kind of you to say. I’d like to have a website, but I just haven’t had time.

” Nor would I have any idea how to build an online store, the resources to do so, or the desire to hang a shingle on the internet and have my family point and laugh when it fails miserably, lost in the world wide web vortex.

However, by mid-afternoon, we’re completely out of jars except for a single reserve box for special occasions that I keep at Nanna’s.

“I can’t believe it. This is my fifth year as a vendor and I’ve never sold out before.”

Carson squeezes my shoulder. “I can. It’s amazing, Bailey. You should be shipping it nationwide.” His hand winds around mine and reels me close.

This gives me something to think about, but not for long because the surge his touch sends through me turns my focus elsewhere, to him and what’s real and fake, along with the impending future.

He bites his lip and opens his mouth, about to say something—something important?

—when one of his teammates hollers his name, pulling him away for an impromptu social media spot with Clara.

My gaze trails after his long, confident stride, the power in his build, and the smile he casts over his shoulder as he looks back at me.