Page 57 of Skating and Fake Dating
Having seen how much passion Bailey has for making maple syrup and how at home she is here, if I could snap my fingers and make her company a success, I would. It’s strange to want someone else’s dream so badly for them, I can feel it all the way down in the bottom of my chest.
She says, “Nanna has left for poker night, but I’m going to stick around and get started on making the maple butter for the fall festival. You probably have stuff to do too. Don’t feel bad if you want to leave.”
Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms in front of my chest. “But what if I wanted to stay?”
Her eyebrows shoot up at the same time as Tiny’s ears point toward the ceiling.
With a shrug, I say, “I can help.”
In the next minutes, Bailey creates order from a scattering of ingredients. Her hands move with practiced precision as she measures, mixes, and stirs to thicken the maple syrup before adding the butter. I’m assigned to jar preparation, wiping them clean and lining them up for filling.
“We always use my grandfather’s syrup and my grandmother’s recipe cards,” she says, nodding toward a wooden box on the counter. “Handwritten. Some of them go back three generations.”
I flip through them carefully, noticing how the paper has yellowed, how different handwritings show the passing of time, of homespun knowledge.
“Do you have a favorite?” I ask.
“The classic maple butter. Well, technically, we start with making maple cream, which is when you boil out any remaining water from pure maple syrup. After it cools, you whip it with butter, resulting in a light, fluffy spread. But in between, exists a careful balance of temperature control because you don’t want it too thin or for it to crystallize. I make other flavors too.”
Listening intently, the room fills with the scents of autumn—apples, cinnamon, maple—and I’m fascinated as this colorful, chaotic woman who hides how scattered she can be behind schedules and planners transforms into a confident and passionate master of the kitchen.
She goes on, lit up by the topic. “For the custom flavors, I put my own spin on the classic, including apple cinnamon—I use apples from the orchard and dehydrate them, then slice them super small. Vanilla bourbon was Pappa’s favorite. Plus, there’s pumpkin spice and blueberry walnut.”
I admire her creativity, dedication, and skill, along with the graceful curve of her neck as she ties her hair back, the pink tint to her full lips, and the low-simmering, sweet but complexchemical reaction of the bubbling syrup and steam as it warms her cheeks.
“You know,” she says, glancing at me while she stirs, “I’ve always dreamed of having the brand go big. That VIP thing you were talking about would be amazing.”
“Why don’t you?”
Her shoulders tense slightly. “For one, there’s the shiny thing I chased instead. You know, my job with you and the team? I needed the stability, the regular paycheck. And hustling specialty foods is hard.”
“But it’s what you love.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes. “It’s a hobby now. It’s best that I accept that.”
Bailey has a little smudge of maple butter on her cheek from when she’d tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.
Leaning in, I press my lips to it, to her soft skin. She goes still and then her lips tug with a smile as the sweet taste fills my mouth. Bailey’s eyes meet mine with the answer to my silent question.
Shifting positions, I press my lips to hers. The connection is immediate—there’s so much softness I’m afraid I’ll never surface. Maybe I don’t want to.
“I’ve been hoping to do this again, properly,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
It’s undeniably true, yet it feels dangerous. I slide my palm to the nape of her neck, angling her head gently as I brush another kiss across her lips. Pulling back to make sure we’re not crossing lines, pink splashes her cheeks as she looks up at me through lashes that flutter like butterfly wings. Her freckles scatter across her cheeks like stars and in the glimmer of her eyes, I glimpse the entire universe.
“So you want to?” I repeat to be sure.
“Practice kissing?” Her expression is so sincere, so honest, I risk coming undone for her. One word and the fake could become real. All she’d have to do is say it.
However, I pull my mind back because that wasn’t the agreement. I want to answer differently, but say, “For the Bash, you know, just in case.”
For now, we will practice. We’ll see just how close we can get to the edge without tipping over.
Our lips meet again and the kiss is gentle, reverent even—a promise, not a demand. Her lips are like candy against mine, cautious at first, then responding with a sweetness that makes my heart ache. The kiss isn’t awkward, demanding, or rushed, but a tender exploration, a question and answer all at once.
When we part again, Bailey’s eyes dance with words unspoken, mirroring the same inside me.
