Page 33 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

BAILEY

I n the chilly basement, I shiver and Carson snugs me closer and I lean into his warmth, his scent, his strength, and all the possibilities of how he could’ve ended his sentence about the things he—Admires? Adores? Likes? Loves?—about me.

In a comforting tone, he says, “In the old days, people used root cellars to keep things cold. I imagine this is no exception.”

“You’re from the city. What do you know about root cellars?”

“I spent the summers at my grandparents’ farm.”

“And you’re just mentioning this now?”

“That might be why I enjoyed visiting your Nanna so much. It’s a different kind of rustic than down South, but the same comfortable, lived-in yet functional feel of home.”

“That’s a great way to describe it.” My conversation with Teddy and Harlow from earlier floats into my mind and a long sigh escapes.

Carson asks, “Nickel for your thoughts?”

“The expression is ‘penny for your thoughts.’”

“Yours are worth more.”

I snort. “If only my maple butter were too.”

“Blondie, you have something special. Seriously. Have you thought about trying again? ”

“Yes, but even if I just eke by, I’ll never meet my family’s expectations.”

“Maybe not, but have you ever considered that you don’t have to?”

I lean back, surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure they’ll find a way to live with the disappointment,” he says, using air quotes, “of having a daughter and sister and niece who does what she loves, contributes to the community, and keeps the family legacy alive.”

Tipping my head from side to side, he has a point. “When you put it that way ...”

“And just think, when you achieve world domination with your maple syrup empire, they’ll be the ones begging for a jar.”

I laugh, feeling encouraged for the first time in a while. “Thanks for saying that. You’re insightful and supportive. Both things I’d like in a real husband.”

“Yeah. Well, I would’ve been, but I’ve learned to live with rejection.”

“Do you mean with Charlene? It might not be my place to say this, but Ted mentioned you were different before. More alive.”

“He said that?”

“Not those exact words, but I’m curious about pre-breakup Bama. He sounds like a fun guy.” Shimmying a little, I say, “Ooh. Do you have any old photos on your phone?”

Carson chuckles. “Yeah. Maybe.” He swipes his device, and the blue glow illuminates the small space between us as he taps his photo album app.

I glimpse lots of hockey-related images.

He stops and points to a picture of a recent photo of himself standing next to a considerably shorter and older woman. I cannot imagine that’s Charlene.

“Last time I was home. This is Lolly, my mom.”

“Your mom’s name is not Lolly.”

He looks at me as if I’m teasing his mother. “Uh, yeah. It is. Short for Loliana. ”

“Carson, my mom is named Taffy—short for Taffany, like Tiffany—and yours is Lolly like lollipop.”

We both howl with laughter.

“Yes, both our moms have sweet-related names,” I say like things between us are meant to be for that very reason. But I keep the last part to myself.

Looking at the photo, I say, “You have the same color eyes.”

“There’s probably a better one in here somewhere.”

As we move backward in time through Carson’s camera roll, I see in visual detail the changes Ted described until we land on an image from his college graduation.

“She looks really pretty.”

“My grandaddy called my grandmother his Southern beauty queen and my mom his Southern beauty princess.”

I smile at the affection in his voice.

“You said she doesn’t travel much, so no chance she’d come up here to visit. I’d love to meet her.”

“She’d love you and your maple butter. The two of you—” He shakes his head as if lamenting something, or is afraid to speak the words into existence. “You’d, well, let’s just say she’s glad Charlene and I didn’t get married.”

The arch of my eyebrow is lost because I’m facing the phone, but the greedy little gossip in me would love to hear more about that.

To resist, I take it upon myself to swipe through a few of his photos, commenting on his dimple when he smiles, how tan he was, and the sly curve to his grin in one picture of him outside a burger joint.

“I sense a story there.”

“My buddies and I used to get up to all kinds of trouble.” His Southern rumble comes through as he chuckles to himself. “All in good fun.”

“I bet. Then where’d you get the gentleman wingman nickname?”

“Because I was tough on the ice but polite off. Mama wouldn’t have me sassing anyone unless I had my helmet on. And I never dated because I thought I had a girl waiting for me back home.”

“So you had a long-distance relationship?”

“And failed miserably.”

This does not give me hope that when I get my next assignment that we’ll be able to continue our relationship. Our fake relationship, a pesky little voice in my head reminds me.

I say, “Maybe the rejection, as you put it, was actually a blessing. Put you on a different path. One where you might find an even better life than the one you thought you’d had.”

“Who’s the wise one now?”

“I’d hardly call myself wise, especially since I’d like to know parts of the old Carson. The guy you were before you created spreadsheets to track your sleep patterns and?—”

“That would definitely be foolish and, uh, did Ted mention that? If he weren’t retired, I’d have him up against the boards.”

“Oh, he ratted you out good. But I just realized something. He said you kept to a strict nutrition plan and had Nat tracking every source of your calories. But you still ate that blondie behind his back?”

Carson hooks his thumb under my chin and meets my gaze. “Because they were irresistible.”

My secret, hopeful heart wants to think that he’s saying that I’m irresistible.

He stretches his legs long in front of him and starts to twist to fully face me when his foot nudges something, which then clatters. The dim light of the phone reveals it’s an old apple crate and not some of the equipment we stashed down here.

“What’s that?” I thought I saw something shine.

He flips over the apple crate. “A makeshift chair to keep us off the cold ground.”

The motion of the phone’s light cast a glare, and again, something flashes on the floor where the crate was. Crouching closer, it looks like a critter dug a hole in the dirt floor. Poking partway out, the sharp edge of a box glints.

“Shine your light over here. It looks like a tin box.”

Carson pulls out an old, rusty metal container. Brushing his hands over the top, he says, “There’s something engraved here.”

I squint. “‘Maple Falls Centennial.’”

“That must’ve been a long time ago.”

Bouncing with excitement, I say, “I think it’s the time capsule!”

“That would be quite the find, considering the town is under threat by developers. I can just see it now, people banding together for the love of Maple Falls, saved by time!” he exclaims.

“My grandfather told me about how it was created and sealed during the town’s hundredth anniversary. They had plans to open it fifty years later, but no one knew where it ended up.”

“My phone’s battery is almost dead.”

“I guess we should wait to open it then.”

“That’s smart.”

But the way Carson looks at me, all smoldery just before the light blinks out, probably isn’t.