Page 27 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Oh. Yeah.” Her tone is flat, far away.
“And there’s this little matter.” I jiggle our wrists.
“Right and if we stopped there, in less than five minutes, the entire town would be speculating about whether we’re newlyweds who got a little too creative or fugitives on the run.”
“Why is that?”
“Mary-Ellen McCluskey has a big mouth.” Bailey claps her hands over hers. “That was uncharitable. I’m sorry. She just blabs. I mean, discusses people’s business.”
“So she’s the town gossip.”
I have a feeling Bailey has been the subject of rumors around Maple Falls. Unfortunately, I don’t think our current situation is going to keep her—or me—off Mary-Ellen McCluskey’s hit list or out of her family’s so-called boxes.
CHAPTER 12
BAILEY
Lifting my arms, including Carson’s right wrist since we’re still cuffed, I say, “Welcome home.”
He winces.
“Sorry. I’m not used to us being attached. I mean—” I stop myself from babbling as my cheeks maintain the rosy hue they acquired when the magician accidentally mistook us for a couple.
Trying to focus on playing tour guide as we cruise through town—and not come off as a chaotic mess, cementing my spot in the Failure Box—I enthusiastically introduce Carson to my picturesque small hometown from the privacy of the Jeep.
He’s right, there’s no sense in advertising the handcuff situation any more than necessary. I’d like to get home, sneak into the garage, and find a tool to remove the cuffs, but I’m sure I’ve already been spotted and Mom is waiting for me with boyfriend bait.
We pass the sign for the Regent’s Hotel, which was booked for the wedding, so I got Carson a room at Hawk River Lodge by pulling a favor to get him a few nights there while waiting for his SkyBnB to be ready. Some of my family members happen to be occupying it for the wedding this weekend.
My stomach flips because, in our flurry of travel delays, I neglected to call the reception desk to inform them he wouldn’t be checking in on time and to hold the room. But that’s a problem for later. I’m sure Denise kept the room for me. She’s one of my top maple butter customers—well, she was before I had to shut down operations and get a “real” job. However, I will be hosting a table at the Maple Fest next month, which gives me a ray of hope.
I point out some of my personal points of interest, including the brook where I loved to watch for otters when I was a kid and Falling for Books, where I’d spend all my maple syrup sales money.
When we stop at the intersection next to Maple Grounds, I try to see this place—Carson’s new home—through his eyes.
He blinks slowly as if looking for the road to continue and to be populated with the usual retail stores and chain restaurants. Cobbiton was a small town, but Omaha, with all its sparkly city life and sprawling suburban creature comforts, was less than fifteen minutes away without traffic.
“Take this left. What you need to understand about this place is that quaint and cozy isn’t just a way of life. It’s a competitive sport.”
He grunts.
“Over there, we host the farmers’ market. The fall festival is coming soon. That you won’t want to miss. Not that you’d be able to. Also, the arena is up here. Your new home away from home,” I try to say brightly, but I can tell he’s not sold.
“Is this it?”
“Oh, um, well, that corner is where I fell off my bike on the curb while trying to show off for Charlie Carlton in the fourth grade and skinned my knees. Still have the scars. Also, the bistro has the best crepes outside Paris and the patio is always open, rain or shine. I try to show him the tight-knit community I left but still love and find myself feeling both proud and slightly embarrassed by my roots.
I left here to pursue bigger goals and prove that I could be successful, but here I am, home again with nothing to show for myself.
I point out the rear of the Regent’s Hotel with its grand gardens. “That’s where the wedding reception will be hosted, just like it has been for everyone else in my family. But take this left.”
“Is that a tradition?”
“It’s a rule.”
“Another rule? Is it in your marriage hobby scrapbook?”
Sort of wishing I hadn’t shared that—but the ride was long and I was delirious from a cocktail of fatigue and caffeine—I press my hand to my face, taking his strong, solid hand with me. “Sorry. I’ll stop that.”
