Page 8 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)

BAILEY

A few paces away on the other end of the sidewalk, Carson waits for his valet rental. Yes, I managed to arrange for him to have car delivery. After perusing transit options, it looks like buses are canceled for me, too.

My shoulders drop. I ought to ask if I can catch a ride with him, but for some reason, I malfunction around the man.

With how much my phone beeps, you’d think I were someone important.

I prepare to tell my family that I WILL BE THERE.

Yes, in all caps, but it’s Mabel this time.

Having caught up on the situation, she grills me, which is decidedly better than having dumped a bucket of dirty laundry water on a guy during a live presser from a locker room.

Yeah. No one messes with my girl Mabel. Except for her mother, who is none other than Mary-Ellen McCluskey. Hashtag relatable.

Mabel: Do you get adorably nervous around him?

Me: Nervous? Yes. Is it adorable? No. If you got tongue-tied around a man you had a super secret crush on, I’m sure it would be cute. I’m more in the hot mess category.

Mabel: So you have a super secret crush on him?

Me: No. Definitely not.

Mabel: It’s time for you to stop living in your head and start loving life again.

Me: I do love my life.

Mabel: But you also never know where your car keys are, lose track of days, and are on your fifth pair of sunglasses this year.

Me: Sixth, I left the last pair on the plane. But I like to think of myself as relatable.

Mabel: I say this with love, but what if you start living a little again? You know what they say, happiness is the best revenge.

Me: I was thinking success is the best revenge.

Mabel: But nothing will make Tagg and Tori regret doing you dirty more than seeing you with a huge smile on your face and a hottie on your arm. Just saying.

Wait. What is she saying?

Mabel: You could ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend for the wedding. Just one night. It couldn’t hurt.

Me: Oh, just my career, my pride, and the vestiges of a formal relationship with a professional hockey player.

Mabel: Ha! So you admit that you have a relationship with him.

Me: A professional one.

“Bailey?” Carson calls, punctuating the notion.

Yes, a professional relationship that doesn’t cross boundaries like silly cowboy romance dreams of him tickling my ears with his deep accent or being pleasantly squished together in a small space or the way his gaze seems to melt me into a human puddle.

He asks, “Is your ride late?”

“Oh, um, no. I’m just figuring things out. Looks like buses were canceled.”

His brows pinch together. “But didn’t you arrange a rental for me?”

“Of course. I’m surprised they’re not here yet.” I open the We Drive You Ride app on my phone and then look up as a four-wheel-drive Jeep pulls to a stop. The valet gets out and dangles the keys for Carson to take.

The man whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a big fan. Glad you came up North.”

Carson’s smile wavers. “Uh, thanks.”

The driver dashes into the airport, leaving us on the sidewalk.

Wearing as bright a smile as I can muster, I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Safe travels. See you tomorrow.”

He starts toward the car and then gives his head a shake. “Wait. What about you?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. Always do.”

“Right. You said you’re a fixer, a solution finder.”

“You got it.” I click my tongue.

He looks me over as if I’m the overtired one. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I look around and then snap my fingers. “I’ll hire a car using the Ride app on my phone. Likely, it’ll be costly since I have a limit to what I can charge for my personal travel expenses—but not players’—to the home office.

I ignore how his brow drops, suggesting he disapproves.

“I’ll see if there’s an economy option or rideshare to Maple Falls. Or at least halfway there. Maybe my cousin Savanna can pick me up at a rest stop,” I say, thinking out loud.

Have I mentioned that with the original flight delay time difference, it’s well after midnight—nearly dawn? Based on my calculations, I should get to Maple Falls in plenty of time for the wedding this evening.

Carson shakes his head. “You can’t take a rideshare all the way to Maple Falls.”

Clearing my throat, I repeat a quote I read in a success coaching book, “‘Plans don’t always need to be easy or perfect. Just doable.’” I try to convince myself that’s true.

Carson loads his bag into the back of the Jeep and then strides over to me, prying my bag from my arm.

“What are you doing? My mother warned me about transit scams.”

His brow creases. “You’re coming with me, though I hope I don’t regret this.”

I scuttle after him as he plops my bag next to his. A copy of A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway pokes out of the outer pocket.

I point. “Some light reading?”

“To unwind.”

“I enjoy westerns.” I leave off the romance part to avoid any implications and maintain professional boundaries. Though I think he hails from Alabama, which is in the South. Either way, I’m in it for the accent and manly charms—fictionally, of course.

Ignoring my comment, tired, or both, Carson says, “Let’s get going.”

I’m about to protest and decline his offer, but that would be stupid since I don’t have any other obvious options and because he opens the passenger side door for me … like a Southern gentleman.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice small because I’m not used to such gestures.

He programs the nearest coffee drive-through into his GPS and asks what I’d like.

“To rewind. That was quite possibly the worst flight ever. I am so sorry. If you’re asked to write a performance review, please?—”

He stops me. “It was an adventure.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

When we reach the drive-through, he orders a coffee with cream and nods to me.

Browsing the menu board, I lean toward him, once more inhaling his somehow still fresh and masculine scent even after traveling. It makes me a little heady and my words come slowly. “Ooh. It’s so hard to decide. It’s PSL season, but that caramel apple cider latte sounds good.”

Carson orders both.

“I probably shouldn’t have that much caffeine,” I murmur, but maybe he mistook my headiness for grogginess. It’s probably better that way.

Also, these specialty coffees, so close to the airport, are markedly more expensive than at the Busy Bee Bakery, and I already blew my budget for this week. But Carson pays and fits the PSL into the cup holder next to his, tips generously, and then passes me the caramel apple cider latte.

Our hands brush and either the cardboard heat shield cuff around the cup is faulty or Carson is a pair of human jumper cables because sparks—light—crackle—swoon!

I stammer, “Thanks for this and the ride and for not making fun of my clothing.”

Carson looks me up and down, spreading warmth across my skin. “I was holding back.”

“This is my airport outfit. To get on the plane, I dress nicely, then in flight, I usually switch to leisurewear, but didn’t because of the turbulence, then after we disembark, I put on a clean outfit.

It helps me feel less like I’ve been encased in a sealed tube breathing everyone’s recycled air for several hours. ”

He chuckles as he turns onto the freeway. “Solid logic.”

“Also, because I’m going to my cousin’s wedding this evening, I want to show up looking halfway decent.”

“I doubt you need to worry about that.”

“Oh, but I do. My cousin Tori is marrying my ex-boyfriend Taggert. Well, we were almost engaged. He had the ring and everything, but offered it to her instead.”

I’m only a quarter of the way in sipping the caramel apple cider latte and the caffeine courses through me. That, combined with travel fatigue, makes me extremely chatty, which explains why I just broke the rules of professionalism and blabbed about my stupid relationship woes.

However, Carson is notably silent, letting me run my mouth, until he asks, “So you have family in Maple Falls?”

“Actually, that’s where I was born and raised. Talk about a small world. It was a big shock when the arena opened, and now we’re getting our own team. I’m guessing everyone is equally divided. Some people don’t like change. Others welcome it.”

“How about you?”

“Depends on the details. Maple Falls is super special. If the arena adds to it, rather than taking over or astroturfing it with fancy, rather than quaint, great.”

“You mean ice, not turf.”

My nod is that of an over-caffeinated cartoon rabbit. “If not, well, I’d do anything to save my town.”

He nods as if understanding. “So, your cousin and your ex are getting married. Seems harsh.”

“I won’t lie. I’m dreading it. But I keep telling myself that success is the best revenge. Though my friend Clara claims that happiness is. ”

“You seem pretty successful to me. Cheerful too, despite the circumstances.”

A deep laugh rises from my belly. “That’s hilarious. Successful? I’m stitched together with mismatched clothing, clear coat nail polish, permanent marker to hide scuffs, and a can-do smile.”

“I’d say there’s more to you than that. You’re here with me, aren’t you?”

With him ?

My laugh rises to hysterical decibels because that is hil-ar-ious until I fall abruptly silent and confess, “To be honest, I’m more hungry for revenge than anything.”

“Did you love him?” Carson asks as if surprising himself with the question.

I consider this as the landscape sweeps by, painting the early morning with pastel brushstrokes. The sunrise illuminates the colorful changing leaves of fall and sketches the outlines of tall pine trees lining the wide road with its generous curves.

“I thought I did. Now I think I loved the idea of him—someone with a plan, someone who wears suits every day.” I glance at Carson. “Not exactly my type, as it turns out.”

“And what is your type?”

I bite back a smile. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Carson’s caffeine or fatigue must catch up with him because he blurts, “Sorry. That was a stupid question. I don’t believe in true love. Not anymore.”

I sputter my sip of coffee. “That’s insane.”

“I’ve heard that the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over again and expecting different results,” he says as if he refuses to entertain repeating anything having to do with relationships.

I twist in my seat to face him. “How can you not believe in love?”

His expression is flat, dim.

Does this mean he was hurt ?

In a challenging tone, he says, “Define love.”

“Well, it’s when you really care about a person.”

“I care about my mom, but it’s not the same kind of love.”

“When you love someone, you think about them all the time.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Pizza is always on my mind.”

I want to laugh, but I’m afraid he’s serious. Not the pizza part because I could go for a slice, yes, even for breakfast. For him, is love just a fairy tale that other people believe in?

I add to my definition, “Love is when you want what’s best for the other person.”

“And the feeling should be mutual,” he says measuredly.

“Unless it’s unrequited,” I say in a small voice, hitting on a sore spot.

As we dip into a valley, Carson focuses on the foggy road ahead. I wonder if it’s a tender place for him, too.

But I cannot stop banging this drum. “You can’t not believe in true love.”

“It’s not real. It’s an illusion.”

Tongue loose, I ask, “What exactly makes you say that?”

Taking a deep breath, he says, “After over ten years together, I finally proposed to my high school sweetheart last spring. She declined. Dumped me. Turns out, after all that time we’d invested in each other, she found another boyfriend while I was away.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Is it any worse than your ex marrying your cousin with the ring he intended for you?”

Frowning, I shake my head. “If you’re trying to get me to agree with you that love isn’t real, that’s not happening.”

“My agent said it affected my performance and may have contributed to this trade. He says I have to improve my image and could do that with a stable relationship to dispel rumors of me being difficult.” The fog remains thick and it seems so are Carson’s thoughts when he adds, “I don’t think faking love will solve the problem. If anything, it’ll contribute to it.”

I snort. “Funny, my friend suggested I bring a fake date to the wedding. Said if my cousin and my ex saw that I’d happily moved on, they’d feel bad for deceiving me.”

He counters, “But it would be fake. See? Love isn’t real.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I can and I do. But I rather like the idea of vicarious revenge.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I could show up back home, having found true love, Charlene would feel bad for leading me on all those years, letting me think we had a future together.”

“Do you still have feelings for her?”

“Nope. Those died when I walked in on her and her new boyfriend.”

“Oof. That must’ve been ugly.”

A smile peeks out from the side of Carson’s mouth.

“Actually, it was kind of cute. See, I’d stolen a piglet from Farmer Jones in a bid to win her back.

Charlene always wanted a mini potbelly as a pet.

You can imagine my shock when I found her and Cyrus together.

I set the piglet down and the piglet started squealing and prancing around while the new boyfriend and I got a little aggressive with each other. The police showed up and?—”

“The mugshot.” It was circulating on social media last spring.

I inhale sharply because if the guy could be charged with anything, it would be stealing hearts.