Page 28 of Skating and Fake Dating
“I doubt it,” he says with a soft chuckle that suggests he’s less annoyed than I’d expect.
“I can’t believe I told you about that particular hobby. But no, it’s not in the scrapbook. While I do want to get married in the chapel, I’d like my wedding reception to be in my grandparents’ backyard, surrounded by maple trees. A fall wedding when the leaves turn ruby, amber, and gold.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“More like homespun.”
I sense his eyes on me and then they quickly shift back to the road.
“Oh, look, that’s my dream house.” We pass a modern farmhouse painted white with a broad front porch and dark gray trim.
“I thought we were going to your parents’ place.”
“We are, it’s just another mile in the opposite direction.”
“Then why are we way over here?”
“I just wanted to, um, give you a tour, so you could get your bearings.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Are you delaying?”
“No. Maybe. Just a little.” I pinch my fingers together.
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it will be,” I mutter.
I direct Carson and we pass the Lodge. “That’s where you’ll be staying. As soon as we get these cuffs off, I’ll let them know you’ll be on your way.”
“Thanks for arranging everything for me.”
“Of course. Just doing my job.” I shake my wrist lightly. “This will stay off the performance review, right?”
“Hmm. But it’s such a good story to tell,” Carson teases, echoing my comment earlier.
Tipping my head back on the seat and wishing I were staring at the sky instead of the Jeep’s cloth ceiling, I have sudden and severe second thoughts about going to the wedding. “Actually, turn around. We’ll drive to the magician’s house, get the key, and then?—”
“Bailey, are you stalling?”
Guilty. As. Charged … of loving the way Carson says my name. Despite his statement, there’s no accusation. No, do better, be better, try harder. Just a soft roll of theB, a drop when he combines theAand theI, and then he tickles theLwith his tongue, teasing out the rest, in a way that’s probably indecent in this county.
“What are you worried about? You said it’s just a little family gathering.”
I mutter, “That’s what we call weddings and you haven’t met my family.”
I sneak a peek at his profile and trace his strong jaw, lined with a nice dispersion of stubble as if it’s intentional rather than a result of our long travel days; the manly hollows of his cheeks, and the way his lips curve beneath the ledge of his perfectly proportioned nose.
A girl could really swoon if she let herself believe that he was hers.
Bringing home a professional athlete was not in the plannerand not on the itinerary, but we did discuss fake dating. Playing pretend wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Optimism collides with desperation, and I ask, “Remember that conversation we had earlier?”
“We’ve been together for like twelve hours. Which one?”
“The one when you said your agent thought it might be a good idea for you to find a stable girlfriend.” I don’t exactly fit the criteria, but I did star as Eliza Doolittle in my junior high school production ofMy Fair Lady.
Accurately placing that particular conversation, he adds, “And when you considered bringing a successful guy home to get your matchmaking mother off your back.”
