Page 6 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

CARSON

W hile still standing in the parking lot next to my truck, conflicting thoughts about Bailey assault me.

Stay away! Stay far, far away!

But she smells so good!

“Is there a problem?” I ask, whether to myself or her, I’m not sure.

“I just mean that I’m solution-oriented and?—”

A bit of a ball of chaos, but in a cute way.

“I may misplace my belongings—these are my fifth pair of sunglasses.” Her eyes roll upward and she taps her head.

Her shoulders sag and she lets out an exasperated breath.

“I promise that I won’t lose any of your things in transit.

I mean, the movers won’t. Okay, found it.

Here’s the info for the moving company. They just need you to sign an online agreement.

Couldn’t do that for you.” She holds out her phone with a digital document and a highlighted box for me to scribble my signature.

“How do I know this isn’t a contract to legally bind us in holy matrimony?”

She gasps. “I’d never. I mean, if you—” She drops her gaze to the ground. “Weddings are stupid. Mostly. Marriage too. I’m not into that at all. So don’t even think for a minute that I have a scrapbook filled with bridal gown ideas or designs for my dream house or?—”

My lips slant with a smile. “Good, because marriage is the furthest thing from my mind. I’m just messing with you.”

Later that evening, after a lengthy delay before getting off the ground, followed by a layover, I squeeze past the flight attendant with a polite smile now that the seat belt sign is off.

Her expression turns mushy and she bats her eyelashes. “Can I do anything for you, sir?”

“Just need the restroom,” I murmur, ducking my head to avoid hitting the ceiling. Even after six years in the NHL, which ushered in my first time on an airplane and many flights since, I still haven’t gotten used to their dimensions.

The vacant sign glows and I quickly do my business. As I wash my hands in the comically small sink, the plane lurches and my elbow hits the molded plastic wall.

The overhead speaker crackles and a male voice says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some unexpected turbulence as we cross the Rockies. Please, return to your seats and fasten your?—”

Another jolt. I stumble forward as the bathroom door swings open, colliding with someone as momentum then shunts us back into the bathroom. The door springs closed as the woman shrieks.

An arm flies forward, mushing against the side of my face as the hand towel dispenser cushions the blow to the back of my head.

“What the?—?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The lavatory in coach was occupied and I really needed to—” She goes quiet.

“Bailey?” I say at the same time she says, “Mr. Crane?”

Pressed against the sink, Bailey’s eyes wide with shock, and still wearing her mismatched pantsuit and pineapple blouse, somehow makes this whole scenario even more absurd.

The plane dips again. I brace myself with one hand against the wall and find Bailey’s waist to hold her steady. So much for maintaining professional boundaries.

“We keep meeting like this,” she says.

“In an airplane bathroom?” I immediately regret it, belatedly realizing what she means.

“Small confined spaces. The elevator, my cubicle, and now?—”

The plane shakes again, jostling us with the reminder of how very close together we are.

“We were lucky earlier and didn’t get stuck in the elevator. Let’s hope the plane—” I stop myself because not only do I seem to struggle with stringing sentences together around this woman, but I don’t want to scare her.

I jiggle the sliding lock mechanism on the door to try to open it and show her we’re fine, but it’s jammed.

She can’t crane her head to see, but asks, “Is it stuck?”

“Appears so.”

I knock on the door a few times but refrain from hollering, Help ! I’m impossibly close to a beautiful woman who makes my pulse bounce off my ribs like a puck against a stick during close passing drills.

Lifting her voice, she calls, “Excuse me. I think we’re stuck in here. Please open the door.”

Bailey is shorter and smaller than me, but having had to stuff myself in here, now with the extra occupant, we’re nearly face-to-face.

She makes me feel like a rookie again and not because I was abruptly traded to a brand-new team.

More like off balance, unsure, hyper-aware of everything …

including how very close we are, mashed together, right now.

Her inhales and exhales press against mine like a seesaw.

I peer down at her. The fluorescent light casts a bluish glow over her face.

Strands of her blonde hair have fallen loose from their clip.

I’d brush them away from her wide, hazel eyes, but my arm is pinned.

The scattering of freckles dotting her nose are brighter now as if her makeup wore off over the course of the long day .

I draw a shaky breath. “It’s going to be okay. Promise,” I say when no one responds to her cry for help.

She swallows thickly.

To help set her at ease, I try humor and I say, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Small world, right?” she says in a shaky voice.

“Small bathroom.”

She chuckles.

Just then, the plane steadies. Neither of us moves.

Whether it’s because we don’t trust that the turbulence is over or for another reason, I’m not sure, but it’s like we’re both suddenly aware of exactly how close we’re standing.

I can smell her shampoo—vanilla with a hint of something sweet like maple syrup.

I ask, “Why weren’t you in first class?”

She laughs like I just told a terrible joke.

I take her response to mean that while I get special player privileges, she does not. This reminds me that the inappropriateness of our proximity could be a problem. But it sure doesn’t feel like one and I have to stamp out any sparks before they ignite.

Voice gruff, I say, “You should be. I can arrange that for future trips.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I’m the one who arranges the travel. Plus, it’s only temporary. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

“Actually, you’re on my foot.”

Her smile dips apologetically like she’s used to accommodating other people. “I’m sorry. I can’t?—”

“I’m teasing. I just mean you deserve to be more comfortable.”

She tries shuffling backward and twisting, but each movement makes my heart go faster, my breath drops shallower. I wriggle, trying to make more room for her, but this confined space isn’t cooperating.

“Maybe if I just?— ”

“I can try to?—”

She says, “The metal lever knob thingy is digging into my back.”

I slide my hand between her and the door. Relief relaxes her features, but the position closes the remaining space between us and a hint of something—Surprise? Interest?—flickers across her face, making my skin tingle.

Not sure whether my gaze wants to land on her eyes with the soft brushes of her long lashes, freckles, or her pouty lips, I take it all in and in my smoothest voice say, “Besides, if we were both in first class, we could awkwardly bump into each other by the beverage cart, instead of here.”

Her laugh is genuine this time and I immediately want to hear more of it. Laughter echoing off the walls of small spaces and vast canyons, then into the dark night and across a sunny morning.

From the outside, the door handle shakes, jarring me from the unbidden thoughts of Bailey.

Whoa there, Bama . For a second, it sounded like I was one pickle short of a barrel. That was Grandaddy’s way of saying crazy talk.

“Occupied,” I say at the same time Bailey says, “We’re stuck. Help!”

We both look at each other carefully as if assessing our respective responses to the situation.

Feeling foolish because the first and only thing we should be doing is trying to get out of here, I say, “That was just a reflex.” Raising my voice for the person on the other side, I add, “The door seems to be jammed.”

We both listen intently but can’t hear much more than murmuring voices over the hum of the plane.

After a beat, Bailey asks, “Is your entire body going numb?”

“Something like that,” I mumble as I snap myself away from the notion of trying to do ridiculous things to hear her laugh .

“This will make for an interesting addition to my player summary report.”

The corner of my mouth slides to the side with a grin. “Do you have to write one of those? If that’s the case, I’d better be on my best behavior.”

“You’re the gentleman wingman, right? I’ll be sure to include something like, ‘Mr. Crane maintains complete composure in unusual workplace environments.’”

“You can call me Carson,” I say.

The plane jerks again and she melts into me. We’re impossibly close now and the tingles turn into something bigger, warmer.

She whispers, “Carson.”

I like the sound of her name on my lips even more as time stretches somehow, erasing the months of agony as I grappled with everything I’d lost. But before I reach the conclusion of what that might mean and talk myself out of it, a sharp rap sounds on the door, shattering the moment, my mind.

“Sir? Miss?” The flight attendant’s voice is professional but underscored with concern.

“The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. You both need to return to your seats.”

Bailey’s eyes widen with mortification. “Oh, no. Everyone is going to think—but we didn’t come in here together. I fell—” She stops because it’s no use. They likely can’t hear us well either.

Clearing my throat, I loudly say, “We’re locked in.”

From the other side of the folding door, voices rise and fall.

Bailey’s gaze lifts toward mine and the corner of her lip curls. “Well, this confirms that you remain cool under pressure, especially in unusual workplace environments.”

“I think we’ve gone beyond workplace at this point,” I say, my voice lower than intended.

Her eyes widen slightly .

I quickly add, “I meant the situation. Not us. There is no us. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she echoes, but her voice catches or it could be that the plane jostles again.

We experience a long minute of turbulence before the flight attendant knocks again. “Sir? Ma’am? You must get back to your seats. I’m going to try something with the door mechanism.”

Bailey bites her lip. “For the record, when we get out of here and face everyone staring, I’m blaming you entirely.”

I try to stifle a smile. “Me? You’re the one who?—”

“Who what?” Her eyebrow arches in challenge, and suddenly, I can’t remember what I was about to say. Something about how she followed me in here? But that isn’t right. Or was it about how her vanilla maple scent is making it impossible to think straight?

I finally manage, “You’re the one who has the better story for her friends.”

She laughs again—that sound I’m quickly becoming addicted to—when suddenly the door slides open with a whoosh.

Bailey pitches backward. Arms full of pins and needles, I catch her before she falls. The corners of Bailey’s smile press against her pink cheeks.

The flight attendant stands there with a small tool in hand, looking both relieved and scandalized. Behind her, a line of curious passengers crane their necks to see the commotion.

Bailey immediately puts six inches between us—the most the tiny space allows—and smooths her hair. “Thank you,” she says with such poise you’d think she was exiting a business meeting rather than an airplane bathroom.

As we awkwardly shuffle past the staring passengers, Bailey whispers so only I can hear, “Next time, let’s exit with a little more pizazz—give the passengers a funny story to tell their friends.”

I nearly trip over my own feet. She’s pretty and funny, too. I take a sharp inhale because those aren’t thoughts I should be having. They defy logic. Lived experience.

Bailey and I do an awkward dance as passengers whisper around us, likely speculating about what went on in the lavatory.

Biting her lip, she points. “Um, I still need to use the bathroom.”

My features scrunch. “Maybe don’t use that one until the lock is fixed. I don’t want to have to tear off the door to rescue you.”

She looks up and smiles. “You’d do that for me?”

I give a nod because I’m afraid of how dangerous answering that question could be.

I return to my seat and the plane levels out, but my pulse still experiences significant turbulence.

When we finally touchdown, reality rushes toward me.

I’m no longer on the Knights and the new team is a big, dark question mark along with my future.

Yeah, I’m disappointed. But I’m not giving up.

My goal is the same as always. I’m going to bring home the Stanley Cup.

How much do I want it? Bad. Forget having a pity party, I’ll rally for the new team. For the fans.

But not for a pretty blonde, no matter how cute and adorably awkward she is or how much like a teenager with a crush she makes me feel.