Page 42 of Skating and Fake Dating
“There you two are,” Taffy says, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the tension between Bailey and me. “I’ve been looking everywhere. We need you inside for the cake cutting.”
Bailey smiles, composing herself quickly. “We’ll be right there, Mom.”
When her mother whisks inside, she stares at her hands, wringing them, and says, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter. It matters in a way I wasn’t prepared for when I ate that blondie back at the Ice Palace, when I found out she’s traveling with me while I transition to the new team, when we got stuck together numerous times, and now.
After surviving the cutting of the cake, the bouquet toss, which Bailey avoids catching, and a nearly interminable series of goodbye hugs, we start toward the Jeep. Bailey walks like she’s stepping on glass or very cold ice.
“Do your feet hurt?” I ask.
She adjusts her dress. “I think my sister insisted I wear these heels as a mild form of torture. But she said they coordinated with the dress, so here I am with what are sure to be blisters.”
I bend down and scoop herinto my arms.
She lets out a small squeak of surprise. “Carson! What are you doing?”
“Carrying you outside. If we’re going to do this, we might as well make it convincing.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest, instead wrapping her arms around my neck. “My hero,” she says dryly.
“That’s what fake boyfriends are for.” I try to keep my tone light, but something in her expression lightens.
“Thank you. Not just for this, but for today. For making it bearable.” Her voice is soft as she tucks her hair behind her ear, a habit I’ve noticed.
I want to tell her that being with her—fake relationship or not—is the most real thing I’ve felt in recent memory.
Instead, I simply say, “Anytime.”
As I carry her to the car, her head resting against my shoulder, I’m struck by how right this feels. For the first time since my high school sweetheart rejected my proposal, I’m allowing myself to imagine what it would be like to have something real again.
The problem is, it’s supposed to be pretend.
When I pull up in front of Bailey’s house, she sends a few texts. The Jeep’s dome light comes on and she’s pale after being rosy-cheeked all night—a look I rather like.
“Hey, you, okay? Tired? Hungry?”
“Yeah. Um, you?”
“I have a few more minutes in me. I should probably grab my stuff from inside.”
“Yeah, good idea,” she says haltingly as her fingers fly over the keyboard on her phone.
When we get in the house, the party continues in the Porters’ living room. Even though the women are generally catty and particularly clucky when it comes to Bailey, they seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company. I always wanted a big family. At least, in theory.
Taffy gasps. “Sweetie pie, you look as white as a sheet. Something wrong?”
“Yeah, sheets.” Bailey’s hazel eyes dart toward me and quickly away.
“What’s up?” I ask when her aunt distracts her mother with a call for a clean glass.
“Remember how I reserved you a room at the Hawk River Lodge because the Regent’s Hotel was booked for the wedding? Well, because you were supposed to check in yesterday, but our flight was diverted, they gave away the room and I feel terrible.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find another?—”
“There isn’t another place with openings for miles. Lots and lots of miles.”
Apparently, having overheard at least part of the conversation, Taffy plants her hand on my arm. “Carson is practically family now. He’s staying here.”
