Page 1 of Skating and Fake Dating
CHAPTER 1
BAILEY
My first language is love. But I’m hardly fluent. In fact, I failed the exam … and am about to flunk out of my job.
As usual, I’m late and I don’t have “Apology” baked goods today. Not that my blondies went over well on my second day at the Ice Palace. But that was months ago.
My tendency to over-commit and then panic about deadlines, which results in stress baking until midnight, may have something to do with my perpetual tardiness.
The truth is, I’m an impostor—a small-town girl who doesn’t belong in this professional setting. I can’t even afford a new pair of pantyhose. Clear coat nail polish to the rescue! Let’s just hope that little run doesn’t decide to creep past my knee and try to make a getaway before the end of the day.
Rushing across the main concourse of the Nebraska Knights’ new athletic complex main building, I pass the wide walkways with panoramic views of the rink and go straight to the administrative section as the elevator door closes.
“Please hold it,” I call with a pathetic plea in my voice.
Confession: I also have to pee, but that’s not the point. I have ninety seconds before I’m officially late. I’ve used up all mygrace periods and reasonable excuses, but I just need to be on the floor of the admin offices by nine sharp.
I cannot afford to lose this job.
A large hand cuffs the elevator door and they slide back open. Moving rapidly on momentum and the espresso in my pumpkin spice latte, I nearly bash into the guy who’s solely responsible for saving the day.
“Thank you.” In a flurry, I tuck my hair behind my ears, then adjust my planner and oversized purse, which had been thwacking my thigh as I ran for the elevator in my sensible pair of black pumps—never mind the permanent marker hiding the scuffs.
Thankfully, I didn’t spill any of my coffee. Priorities, people.
My sister, a big-shot Chicago attorney, participates in a charity 5K each year and all the women on her team wear high heels. I’d turn an ankle and cause a spectacle. I just know it.
Coming from a family of high achievers—my mom is an eye surgeon, my dad is also in law, and my little brother, Xander, graduates from Yale next summer—I’m the weak link.
“No problem,” says the man with a low, rumbly voice and the tease of a Southern accent.
It’s a windy day and I’m pretty sure my race to get to work on time also caused my eyes to water, smudging my mascara. I bought an off-brand called CoverCirlat a Buck and Below. It has similar packaging and font as my favorite kind, so I figured it was probably made in the same factory. I was wrong and had a sty last week to prove it.
For this reason, and this reason alone—mostly—I don’t dare look up at the person with me in the elevator.
It’s not like I’ve ever had a dream with a particularly handsome Southern gentleman approaching me on a dusty road at sundown, tipping his hat, and saying,Mighty fine to see you this evenin,’ miss. How do you do?
And that dream definitely didn’t become a fantasy I’ve played out like in the cowboy romance novels my nanna reads.
Instead, I glance at the panel on the wall, see that my floor is already selected, and then drop my gaze to a large pair of dress shoes belonging to a man standing approximately two and a half feet to my left.
“Running late?” he asks.
I glance at my bare wrist where my grandfather’s vintage watch usually wraps securely like a hug, reminding me not to miss a moment of my life … or work. “Running late? Perpetually.”
Sensing his gaze land on the faded watch outline from my summer tan, I feel flustered and foolish that I didn’t wear a bracelet to hide the pale skin—or get the watch fixed.
The elevator makes a clanking sound and I jostle, losing my footing and wishing I could wear sneakers to work—I would’ve been able to if my maple butter biz had not been an epic fail.
The same hand that held the door for me reaches for my wrist so I don’t fall, forcing me to look at him. A warm tingle rushes up my arm and sizzles on its way inward.
“Gotcha,” he says.
My stomach whooshes and not only because I’m afraid something is wrong with the elevator, causing me to be trapped in here, making me late for sure … but it’s also because I’d be enclosed in a small space with arguably the most attractive man in the NHL. He has broad shoulders, a strong jawline, and a tease of amusement in his eyes that’s at odds with how he looks like he’s dressed for a corporate meeting.
I’d really hate (love) to be stuck with him. However, they didn’t have elevators in the cowboy days, so there’s that.
Meeting a pair of blue-green eyes, to my dismay (delight), sure enough, it’s Carson “Bama” Crane.
