Page 73 of Skating and Fake Dating
Angel, who operates Happy Horizons Ranch here in Maple Falls, waves. She’s also in the battle to save the town and I’ve heard through the “Sap line,” aka Mary-Ellen and Nanna, that Marcy is looking for loopholes.
We chat briefly about the next town meeting and speculate about the mayor’s absence.
However, the moment they’re gone, my thoughts pick up exactly where they left off when Carson takes the last sip of his cider, dropping the cup from his lips.
I want to believe our kiss and connection were real, but I know better than to let myself be fooled. Carson has a bright future ahead of him and I simply don’t see myself as part of it—not because I don’t want to be by his side, but because I’m me. I let out a sigh and turn to a customer when she asks about maple butter storage.
But my thoughts repeatedly return to Carson, standing off to the side, chatting with Murray, who was tasked with cleaning shaving cream out of lockers back when I was in high school. Promise, I took no part in that prank.
Yesterday evening, in addition to the dunk tank, Carson and I enjoyed some of the festival activities, including a three-legged race. We lost, which was a surprise since we’d unintentionally practiced being tied together with handcuffs. We sampled pie and voted on our favorites for the baking contest, and contributed to the pumpkin carving display, as we contended with a town in New Hampshire for the most lit jack-o’-lanterns in one place.
“Shouldn’t you be resting before your big game tomorrow?” I ask, sipping the cider because it gives me a chance to pause and be with Carson while I can.
“Coach gave us the day off to prep, which means a workout,so rest? No. Rest is for the weak. That’s what he says. Besides, I promised your grandmother I’d help set up for the evening concert.”
I’m not sure whether I should be grateful or alarmed at how seamlessly Carson fits into my family as if he’s one of our own—the night before the festival opened, he helped Dad prep the ticket booth station. He’s basically Mom’s surrogate son while Xander is in Connecticut, as she makes sure he takes extra helpings of everything because she says,He’s a growing young man.
No, he’s a fully grown man and that thought alone sends my cheeks up in flames.
Best of all, he doesn’t put up with my sister’s nonsense and retorts to her comments with good-natured banter.
Since the kiss on my front porch, which gave me major prom night vibes—at least the prom night I’d dreamed about—we’ve been dancing around each other, afraid to acknowledge what’s happening between us. Instead, we’ve busied ourselves with preparations for the festival and Carson’s upcoming home game.
“What can I do to make myself useful?” he asks.
“I could use help restocking these shelves. The infused maple butters have been a hit.”
His smile makes his eyes crinkle. “The Maple Fest visitors have good taste and I’m convinced your maple syrup is addictive, so that probably helps. Soon, you’ll have people banging down your door to get some.”
“I wish.”
His gaze captures mine and his eyebrows lift like I can count on it. I have the silly thought that I can rely on him too, but as Nanna has always said,Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.
She pulls up in the farm truck, stacked with boxes filled with jars for us to unload. While she makes the rounds, telling everyone about the concert tonight, for the next thirty minutes, Carson and I work side by side in comfortable silence, handing out samples and making change. He proves to be an excellentsalesman, charming older ladies and young women alike with stories about how my maple butter “Tastes like home.”
I have a sudden and serious sense of homesickness, but not for the place I’ve left, but for the future I fear I’ll never have as I travel from city to city, helping hockey players adapt to new teams and never returning to my roots for a substantial amount of time.
Stomach grumbling, it’s been hours since lunch and Nanna’s sourdough is merely crumbs as Carson and I take turns working the crowd, tag team style, telling a couple how great a jar of maple butter is for gift-giving and hosting for the upcoming holiday season. They decide to buy three jars and I realize there’s only one left of that flavor.
“Do you sell online?” the woman asks.
Carson looks at me in question.
“I don’t even have a website. Not yet,” I add.
Good-naturedly, the man says, “You should. I only had a sample and this stuff seems addictive. Takes the ordinary butter and maple flavors to a new level.”
“That’s so kind of you to say. I’d like to have a website, but I just haven’t had time.” Nor would I have any idea how to build an online store, the resources to do so, or the desire to hang a shingle on the internet and have my family point and laugh when it fails miserably, lost in the world wide web vortex.
However, by mid-afternoon, we’re completely out of jars except for a single reserve box for special occasions that I keep at Nanna’s.
“I can’t believe it. This is my fifth year as a vendor and I’ve never sold out before.”
Carson squeezes my shoulder. “I can. It’s amazing, Bailey. You should be shipping it nationwide.” His hand winds around mine and reels me close.
This gives me something to think about, but not for long because the surge his touch sends through me turns my focus elsewhere, to him and what’s real and fake, along with theimpending future. He bites his lip and opens his mouth, about to say something—something important?—when one of his teammates hollers his name, pulling him away for an impromptu social media spot with Clara. My gaze trails after his long, confident stride, the power in his build, and the smile he casts over his shoulder as he looks back at me.
CHAPTER 31
