Page 81 of Skating and Fake Dating
“That’s smart.”
But the way Carson looks at me, all smoldery just before the light blinks out, probably isn’t.
CHAPTER 33
BAILEY
Traveling back in time in my memories, stories passed along in my family click like a slide show to the front of my mind, including Uncle Gordon’s toupee landing on top of the Thanksgiving turkey one year, Nanna’s surprise party date mix-up, and of course, the Case of the Phantom Raccoon. With plenty of time to kill, I relay each one to Carson.
Our laughter grows together and then we lean in at the same time. Our faces are suddenly inches apart. I can see every fleck of silver in his eyes, feel his breath on my cheek.
“Bailey,” he whispers, his voice rough.
The air between us changes, charged with something neither of us can deny. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and I lean into his touch, my eyes drifting closed.
“What happened to no real feelings?” I ask, barely audible.
“I think we broke that rule already.”
As if we’re made for each other, for surprise situations like this where we’re alone together, Carson’s lips find mine.
Like the first time, his mouth is soft and tentative, like he’s asking permission. I answer by threading my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, and suddenly we’renot two people who’ve been pretending anymore—we’re just us, real and honest in this stolen moment.
His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me to him as the world narrows to just us. His scent fills me as I remember to inhale, the way he sighs against my mouth, the thundering of my heart that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
Because of my mother’s matchmaking and despite my sister’s doubts about me being desirable, I’ve kissed guys before, but never like this. Never with someone who makes me feel like they’re a real place to call home and like I’m falling off a cliff at the same time.
Carson’s thumb traces along my jaw as we break apart for air, our foreheads pressed together. His breathing is as unsteady as mine, and when I open my eyes, his are already on me, dark and wondering.
“Bailey,” he says in his Southern accent like my name is special.
I want to tell him everything—how scared I am, how right this feels, how I haven’t exactly been acting out this arrangement. But words feel too small for this moment, so I kiss him again instead, pouring all those unspoken truths into the way our lips move together, the way we fit.
Time becomes elastic down here in our basement shelter. Maybe we kiss for a few seconds. It could be hours. All I know is that when we finally part, it’s like the ground beneath us, all the way down to the tectonic plates forming the foundation of the earth have settled into a new position.
All of a sudden, the bulkhead door flies open. Damp air and dim light pour in. I hadn’t even noticed the rain stopped pounding, nor had I heard voices outside.
Framed at the foot of the stone steps, flashlights sweep us from overhead. Carson and I jump apart, the moment shattered for sure.
“There you are. Everyone has been looking for you. What are you doing down there?” my cousin Kevin accuses like we lockedourselves in the basement on purpose. He shines the light right in my eyes, and I shield my face.
Carson’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. The storm has blown itself out and a clear sky has taken its place.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me make sense of how I’m feeling. No, that’s not quite right. Without the clouds in the sky, I’m forced to look at what I’ve been avoiding. I’ve fallen for Carson. It’s both exciting and terrifying.
Shortly after, when we reach the edge of the lawn where everyone gathers to watch fireworks, Carson stands behind me, gripping my shoulders, then slides one arm across my collarbones and rests his cheek against my temple.
His warmth radiates into my back like a giant electric blanket. I drop my head into the crook between his shoulder and chest.
Voice low, he asks, “Are you chilly?”
“No, I’m just right.”
No sooner do I say the words than the memory of last year’s fireworks display comes to mind. I was here with Tagg. I’d been certain about my relationship with him. The takeaway is that I cannot trust my guy judgment or my fashion choices, as the fateful day at the Ice Palace comes to mind when I was wearing my slightly mismatched blue work suit. So much can change in three hundred and sixty-five days … or one day.
As if twined with my nervous thoughts, Carson asks, “So what will happen when you get an email from your boss, saying that my transition period is over?”
The meaning dangles like a worm on a hook.
