Page 22 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Yes, because in my spare time, I pursue marriage. I don’tdate around, play the field, or rink, or whatever hockey players do.”
I snort because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to get Charlene out of my system—the exact opposite of my decade-long relationship. Instead of clinging to commitment, I’ve hurled myself into the dating scene with all the grace of a flaming wrecking ball hitting center ice.
From accidentally bringing my vegetarian date to a steakhouse to showing up at the wrong restaurant and inadvertently joining someone else’s anniversary celebration, my love life has become a highlight reel for catastrophe.
Getting out of the Jeep to pump gas, I mutter, “Good luck.” I sure could use some, too, because traveling with Bailey, her sweet maple scent filling up the vehicle, and discussing marriage isn’t making me want to run to the hills like it should.
She gets out of the rental, stretches her arms overhead with a cute little kitten yawn, and then leans against the door with the gas pump between us. Her gaze sharpens on something in the distance and she pops to her feet. “The flea market is less than a mile away. Please, can we stop?”
“I thought you had to get to the wedding.”
“We can just pop in real quick. Please, pretty please.” Hands clasped together under her chin again, she slowly bats her eyelashes at me.
I have a feeling our definitions ofreal quickdiffer, but Bailey is hard to deny. “Okay, but let’s set a time limit. Fifteen minutes, jars only.”
She scrunches up her face and lifts her shoulder. “They also have really yummy buttercrunch toffee candy. Apples are in season, so we could see if there are any tarts. Oh, Jam Sessions used to have a stall there and had the best raspberry jam. Not sure if they still do. Don’t tell Aunt Mindy. Hers is good, but not as good as she thinks. I shouldn’t return home on an empty stomach.”
I chuckle. “I thought you were going to say empty-handed.”
“That too.”
“Okay, but fifteen minutes.”
“Twenty.”
“Eighteen.”
“Deal.”
Bailey holds out her hand to shake and I hesitate. But her hazel eyes cling to mine and I slide my palm against hers, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the crisp northern morning.
She gives me directions, practically plastered to the window with excitement as she relays how her family would stop here on the way to the lake during the summer. She speaks fondly, yet I detect nervousness about the wedding, like she wants to postpone it, which is no surprise considering it’s between her ex and her cousin, but maybe for other reasons too.
A massive retro sign advertisesThe Market & Mercantile: a flea of curiosities. The building is huge and in need of paint, but I guess the treasures are on the inside because Bailey excitedly races ahead and I catch up.
“Game plan: We can’t get separated. Don’t get your fortune told—it’s a ripoff. Do try the free beef jerky samples. So good. Oh, and if I tug on my ear, that means you have to pretend to be my grouchy husband who wants to leave.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So the vendor doesn’t lose the sale. The whole trick here is bargaining. I go high. They go low. We meet in the middle. It’s the rules.”
Puffing my cheeks on an exhale, I say, “I have no idea what I’m getting into, do I?”
She smiles and squeals a little. “It’s going to be so fun.”
Glancing at the time on my phone, I say, “The clock starts now.”
When we get inside, Bailey is a flurry of darting motion from one stall to another like a hummingbird, hunting for nectar and treasure.
In less than five minutes, she has a box full of vintage glass containers in pale shades of blue, green, and purple with unique textures. Some have glass lids fitted with wire closures and others don’t have tops. She also has two jars of jam because she insists I have one too, and is following her nose to the Apple Cart Tart stall.
The place is a playground for bargain hunters, trinket collectors, crafters, and curiosity seekers. Not only is there a fortune teller, there are musicians, artists sketching live portraits, and a magician dressed in a black suit who has a dark, pointy beard.
Outside his novelty booth, he dazzles a small audience with a vanishing box. Flipping a coin between his knuckles, he tosses it in the box like a wishing well and it disappears. Next, he does the same thing—minus the knuckles and tossing—with an audience member. I’m slightly mesmerized. But yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Just like love.
The magician calls, “For my next demonstration, I need two volunteers.”
Bailey thrusts her arm into the air.
