Page 31 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

BAILEY

T he Maple Fest is in full swing when Harlow and Ted, a retired NHL player who moved here after the charity team’s success and whom I met at the team launch party, approach my stall.

Harlow says, “We’re so glad you have a table. I thought Teddy was going to have a temper tantrum when I told him we were out of your maple butter.”

My eyes widen with amusement. “Wow. Thank you. People say it’s addictive.”

Ted elbows his wife. “You were curled in a ball, practically crying.”

She says. “We’re joking mostly, but we will take a jar. By any chance, do you sell online? I’d like to send some home for the holidays.”

Depressingly, I tell them the same thing I’ve repeated several times now—no—and the conversation shifts to life in Maple Falls before I explain that I’m not going to be here to tap the trees this winter because I’ll be transferred to a new team as the NHL PAL. That also means no more Sweet Memories.

“So this means no more maple butter?” Ted asks, looking panicked .

Harlow gasps.

Maybe they weren’t joking.

He taps the air with his finger. “Hold on. I have a solution. Carson will be here. Plus, Asher grew up on a maple farm in Canada. They can do it.”

“It’s a lot of work and with their schedules, I’m not so sure they’d want to volunteer.”

“We’ll help,” Harlow says brightly.

Ted nods in agreement.

While I appreciate their enthusiasm, I long to be the one inserting the splines, joining the trees with the tubes and filtering the sap.

“You dug Carson out of his pity party hole of despair. The least he can do is collect some tree sap for you while you’re gone.”

Little does Ted know that Carson and I already had an agreement and we’re just about even. But then I double back to the other thing he said.

“Pity party hole of despair,” I repeat, not as a question, but more with amusement, seeing as I’m Carson’s fake girlfriend.

Ted continues, “Carson was different before that ex of his crushed his heart, but I see him coming back to the land of the living, bit by bit.”

“What do you mean?” I ask with what I hope sounds like casual nonchalance but curious to know more about this other version of Carson.

“Bama was known for his easy laugh, relaxed attitude. He was the life of the party and so generous in that Southern hospitality kind of way, not to mention he won the Frozen Four back in college, so he was a bit of a legend too.”

Harlow tips her head as if not privy to this information. “Then what happened?”

“Then he proposed to his high school sweetheart after ten years of faithful dating ... and waiting. She rejected him. Turns out she was sneaking around with some loser. Bama flamed out, but then, as if pulling himself together, he went into this weird zone where he was super rigid with routines, upped his practice, nutrition, and someone said he even had a spreadsheet for his sleep schedule.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Seriously. He went all-in on becoming a super hockey star for this big comeback season.”

Harlow adds, “Sounds like he was trying to overcompensate and control every aspect of his life after what happened. It’s understandable. How about now?”

I’m not sure how to answer because these finer details are news to me. I don’t know anything about spreadsheets, so maybe he’s loosened up a little.

Just then, Nanna hurries over, looking stricken. “I was just talking with the festival coordinator and a storm is coming. We need all hands on deck to move supplies and such inside before it hits.”

Glancing up, what started as a beautiful autumn morning clouds over, staining the sky with angry shades of gray, until I see Carson approaching us.

His eyes hover over me for a moment before he takes charge.

“Blondie, how about you get started cleaning up here? I’ll go with Nanna and you can meet us when you’re done.

Ted, you come with us. Harlow, will you please help Bailey? ”

She nods. “And I’ll tell her all about how I got my custom tea blend biz off the ground.”

“Thanks, everyone. So much for the evening concert, but we appreciate your help. You fit right in here,” Nanna says affectionately to Carson.

He sure does. The good news is he gets to stay, while I’ll soon be getting on an airplane set for another destination, another player, another team.

Shoving down the sadness inside and trying to keep my voice even, I call after them, “Sounds like a plan.”

Unfortunately, I don’t get to hear about Harlow’s business success as the wind kicks up and we have to hustle against the incoming weather.

Twenty minutes later, I help a small crew secure equipment in the basement of what’s now the haunted house for Maple Fest and what long ago was the town’s general store.

It’s mostly used for storage now, but with the talk of the big-time developer with ties to the town claiming the land here is his, next year we might be looking at a big box shopping center or factory rather than the site of our beloved fall festival.

The rain begins to hammer the roof as I carefully step through the bulkhead to the basement and walk down the old stone steps with an armful of extension cords.

“Last one,” Carson says from behind me, carrying a heavy container of sound equipment into the basement.

We’re arranging everything when a powerful gust of wind slams the metal doors to the bulkhead behind us.

“Yikes! That doesn’t sound good, but I think we’re done. Just in time.” I dust off my hands and try the door handle. It remains fixed in place. I jiggle it and it doesn’t budge.

Carson gives it a try, putting his shoulder into it when the door refuses to open. Looking around, it’s the only way out or in. We both holler a few times, but the howling wind drowns our voices.

Stating the obvious, I say, “I think we’re locked in.”

“Do you have your phone?”

I pat my pockets. “It’s in my purse, which is?—”

“In Nanna’s truck?” he finishes.

My cheeks puff on an exhale. “Yep.”

Carson pulls out his phone. “Mine is here, but I don’t have service.” Holding it aloft, he takes a few steps, turns, and says, “Not a single bar of connectivity.”

I groan, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. We could continue shouting, calling for help, but over the roar of the storm, I doubt anyone would hear us.

Carson tries the door one more time before joining me on the floor. “Well, at least we have shelter from the storm. Someone will notice we’re missing, eventually.”

I glance at my watch, then remember it’s not there. “What time is it?”

“Just past five.”

“The rain is coming down pretty hard, so it might be a while before anyone comes looking. When was the concert supposed to start?”

He says, “Seven.”

“Maybe this will blow over and they’ll still set up for the concert.”

“Or postpone it,” Carson mutters.

I groan. With Carson seated beside me, I want to absorb his warmth like a comforting blanket, but nerves set me on edge.

He bumps his shoulder into mine. “You know, we have been stuck somewhere before and it worked out okay.”

Remembering the airplane bathroom, I chuckle. “But let’s make a pact not to get trapped again.”

In the dim shaft of light coming through the narrow basement windows, Carson says, “That doesn’t seem to be up to us.”

“I’d rather we be stranded on a dusty road in the South, on a warm evening.” I clap my hand over my mouth not only because I described my dream, but because of how dream-like my voice sounded.

“Is that so? A dream? Just the two of us?” he asks, tone deep.

“I mean, it would be fine. Better than a musty old basement.”

“What would we be doing on that road?” He turns to face me slightly.

I swallow thickly. “Um, walking.”

“Together? Why?”

With an irrational need to make my vision clear, I say, “Well, we were walking from opposite directions and met.”

“So stranded, but walking toward each other.”

“More like just the two of us. Alone,” I whisper.

His eyes dance with mischief. “Like right now? ”

I’ve traveled too far. Can’t go back now, so I continue, full steam ahead. “Except you’d be wearing a cowboy hat. Do you happen to have one of those?”

In his low, rumbly Southern accent, he says, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

I shiver, but not only because I’m chilly, but more like how being so close to Carson sends excitement through me that has no real place to go, having decided that our relationship is for show and not real.

“Are you cold?” Carson asks, shifting closer to me.

“A little. The temperature drops fast when a storm moves in.”

Without hesitation, he shrugs out of his flannel, leaving him in a thin T-shirt, and drapes it around my shoulders. The fabric is warm from his body and smells like him—fresh and masculine with a hint of aftershave—uniquely Carson.

“Thank you, but what about you?”

“Can’t have you freeze, Blondie.”

“When you first called me that, it made all my insecurities come up.”

“Blondie?”

“My brother, Xander, has loads of nicknames for me, including but not limited to Wobbles, Bog Monster, Bailey Jaily, and most recently Wrinkle in Time.”

“What is he, twelve?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And very, very wrong. You’re quite the opposite of a bog monster—whatever that is. Not only are you beautiful, but you’re smart, funny, and talented, Blondie.”

The nickname that once stained my cheeks—and shirt—red with humiliation and irritation makes my blood turn to lava. “Did you really break the nutrition plan rules and eat one of the maple butter blondies I made that day at the Ice Palace?”

“My mother told me that it’s rude to turn down homemade baked goods.

Plus, it was delicious. Worth every calorie and dent in my macros or whatever, Nat, the Knights’ nutritionist, was tracking.

” Brows knit together, his expression turns more serious.

“I wanted to tell you how amazing they were, but then everyone would know that I’d eaten one. ”

“You risked the wrath of your nutritionist and teammates for my baking. That might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.” Something warm unfurls in my chest.