Page 23 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“Who’s questiony now? Be patient. We’re almost there.”
We go through another door and the hallway goes from a potential scene of a crime to a freshly painted sporty passageway with signs, emblems, and lots of Nebraska Knights swag.
We stop in front of a door labeledLocker Room.
After entering a code on a keypad, once more, Beau holds open the door for me.
Aghast, I point. “I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s boys only. Off-limits.”
He snorts like there’s something I don’t know. “You’re with me. It’s after hours on a Saturday. We’re the only people here.”
“But why?”
“Why are we the only ones here or why go inside?” The corner of his lip twitches like he knows my answer. “To get you something warmer to wear.”
I take two steps into the locker room and no farther. Beau seems to accept this and stops in front of a built-in wooden open-faced locker—kind of like the sandwich. I pat my stomach, wondering if I’m hungry. Beau picks through it. Empty-handed, he looks around. His massive shoulders lift and lower as if he’srethinking his plan. Then, taking a pair of ice hockey skates that look like they’d fit a giant, he clasps my hand and leads me down the hall. The way his fingers fit around mine is like one of those full-body plastic-coated metal safety harnesses on a theme park ride.
Keep your hands inside at all times, kids ...
However, he doesn’t have to keep his hands to himself. I like the way this feels. It’s sweet, and apart from my weekly trips to Honey & Lavender, I don’t have much of that in my life.
We reach another door. From inside, Beau produces a Nebraska Knights sweatshirt. He holds it up to me and says, “That should work.” Dropping my hand and taking a couple of pairs of socks, he gestures for me to follow him again.
I think I know where this is going ... and I’m not going to like it because if I have two left dancing feet, I don’t stand a chance ice skating. I plant myself in the hallway. I’ll just be part of the arena décor from now on. A potted fern. I hope karma doesn’t keep people from watering me from time to time.
Beau is several long paces ahead when he realizes I’m no longer by his side. Turning slowly, he asks, “What?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t what?”
“Do what you want me to do.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“The first one.”
“It’s like ballroom dancing.”
I shake my head slowly. “Sure. Okay. Right. Then what makes you think I can skate?”
To my surprise, he marches over, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder.
I squeak and protest, but he doesn’t even grunt with the effort.
“My fiancée is going to skate with me whether she likes it or not, but I think she’s going to like it.”
All this talk about actually being this man’s fiancée has me confused.
I could protest, pound on his back, and demand he put me down, but the pressure off my feet is the most welcome feeling—along with the warmth of his strong, solid body.
A long, luxurious sigh escapes as the blood rushes to my head and my hair hangs loose. My stomach turns somersaults. Even without an audience of doubters about our engagement, if I’m not mistaken, this would be classified as flirting.
When we reach the rink, Beau sets me down and meets me with his green-eyed gaze. It should rock me. Instead, I feel steady. Then again, I’m not yet on the ice.
