Page 11 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Actually, you’re on my foot.”
Her smile dips apologetically like she’s used to accommodating other people. “I’m sorry. I can’t?—”
“I’m teasing. I just mean you deserve to be more comfortable.”
She tries shuffling backward and twisting, but each movement makes my heart go faster, my breath drops shallower. I wriggle, trying to make more room for her, but this confined space isn’t cooperating.
“Maybe if I just?—”
“I can try to?—”
She says, “The metal lever knob thingy is digging into my back.”
I slide my hand between her and the door. Relief relaxes her features, but the position closes the remaining space between us and a hint of something—Surprise? Interest?—flickers across her face, making my skin tingle.
Not sure whether my gaze wants to land on her eyes with the soft brushes of her long lashes, freckles, or her pouty lips, I take it all in and in my smoothest voice say, “Besides, if we were both in first class, we could awkwardly bump into each other by the beverage cart, instead of here.”
Her laugh is genuine this time and I immediately want to hear more of it. Laughter echoing off the walls of small spaces and vast canyons, then into the dark night and across a sunny morning.
From the outside, the door handle shakes, jarring me from the unbidden thoughts of Bailey.
Whoa there, Bama. For a second, it sounded like I was one pickle short of a barrel. That was Grandaddy’s way of saying crazy talk.
“Occupied,” I say at the same time Bailey says, “We’re stuck. Help!”
We both look at each other carefully as if assessing our respective responses to the situation.
Feeling foolish because the first and only thing we should be doing is trying to get out of here, I say, “That was just a reflex.” Raising my voice for the person on the other side, I add, “The door seems to be jammed.”
We both listen intently but can’t hear much more than murmuring voices over the hum of the plane.
After a beat, Bailey asks, “Is your entire body going numb?”
“Something like that,” I mumble as I snap myself away from the notion of trying to do ridiculous things to hear her laugh.
“This will make for an interesting addition to my player summary report.”
The corner of my mouth slides to the side with a grin. “Do you have to write one of those? If that’s the case, I’d better be on my best behavior.”
“You’re the gentleman wingman, right? I’ll be sure to include something like, ‘Mr. Crane maintains complete composure in unusual workplace environments.’”
“You can call me Carson,” I say.
The plane jerks again and she melts into me. We’re impossibly close now and the tingles turn into something bigger, warmer.
She whispers, “Carson.”
I like the sound of her name on my lips even more as time stretches somehow, erasing the months of agony as I grappled with everything I’d lost. But before I reach the conclusion of what that might mean and talk myself out of it, a sharp rap sounds on the door, shattering the moment, my mind.
“Sir? Miss?” The flight attendant’s voice is professional but underscored with concern.
“The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. You both need to return to your seats.”
Bailey’s eyes widen with mortification. “Oh, no. Everyone is going to think—but we didn’t come in here together. I fell—” She stops because it’s no use. They likely can’t hear us well either.
Clearing my throat, I loudly say, “We’re locked in.”
From the other side of the folding door, voices rise and fall.
