Page 29 of Skating and Fake Dating
He was listening carefully. “Yes, that one!” I exclaim, jerking our joined hands again. “Sorry.”
“If you’re asking me to play along?—”
“It’s not the worst plan.”
“It wouldn’t be right,” he says with finality.
Blinking sense into focus, I reply, “Right. Of course not. I’m just goofing around.”
Pointing—with my non-handcuffed hand—toward a stately white colonial home with two columns framing the red front door, I say, “That’s where I grew up. When I was a kid, I wondered if the black shutters actually worked. After acquiring a ladder and crowbar, I concluded they do not, requiring me to find some duct tape and unsuccessfully try to reattach one.”
Carson chuckles and pulls to the side of the road behind several other cars, meaning the gang is all here, awaiting my arrival, if only so they can guilt-trip me about being late and missing last night’s festivities.
I grip the passenger side door. Carson tugs my wrist in the other direction as he gets out, stretching our arms long between us.
“Come on. You’re going to be late.”
I shake my head slowly, rubbing the back of it against the seat rest, knowing it’s probably making my rat’s nest of travelhair worse. I’ve never seen an actual rat’s nest, so for all I know, they could have tidy little hidey holes, but either way, I wouldn’t mind crawling down one right about now.
Carson leans into the vehicle and with a wicked grin, says, “It’ll be fun.”
“Haha. First, a magician. Now a clown. Today is already a laugh riot.”
“It can’t get worse than us being nearly trapped in an elevator together, then locked in an airplane bathroom, and now handcuffed.”
He has a point, but was it really that bad?
However, even though we did spend an inordinate amount of time trapped in an airplane bathroom, I do have to use it now, and that’s something I’ll be doing alone, thank you very much.
“Yes, Carson. It can get worse. Let’s just say that the Porters are an experience.” I’m not sure he hears me as I clumsily climb out of the Jeep.
CHAPTER 13
BAILEY
Taking a deep breath, I manage to get to the side door before my legs stop cooperating. Voices rise and fall from inside along with the faint strains of a sports game. Probably college football.
“Although hockey got pretty big here, my dad is a huge Huskies fan. If you root for the Oregon Ducks, maybe don’t mention it.”
Carson’s chuckle is warm. “I wouldn’t know my canines from my waterfowl when it comes to college football.”
Squeezing my eyes shut because they’re going to notice us out here, I draw a deep breath and prepare myself. “They’re going to love you.”
And I cannot tell them that he’s my boyfriend, even though I kind of sort of want to.
Be strong, Bailey.
“Sweetie pie,” Mom shrieks when I enter the kitchen.
She wraps me in a hug and because Carson and I are connected, he’s close. So close, I can feel his heat like a tropical afternoon in Tahiti, imagine his strong arms embracing me, his breath tickling my ear during our fantasy honeymoon—a far better reason for a trip than taking a sick day to escape my life.But these aren’t things I should be thinking about as my mother looks me up and down.
“You’ve gotten too thin. That city life is not agreeing with you. I’m so glad you’re home and we can—” Her smile lifts and then lowers when she sees Carson, followed by our joined wrists.
“Mom, this is Carson. Carson, meet my mother, Taffy Porter.”
He extends his right hand, cuffs and all, and says, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
My mother’s wide eyes travel from the metal attaching us together, up his arm, to his broad shoulders, to his mouth, speaking with that deep, rich Southern accent as if instantly mesmerized.
