Page 15 of Skating and Fake Dating
The man whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a big fan. Glad you came up North.”
Carson’s smile wavers. “Uh, thanks.”
The driver dashes into the airport, leaving us on the sidewalk.
Wearing as bright a smile as I can muster, I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Safe travels. See you tomorrow.”
He starts toward the car and then gives his head a shake. “Wait. What about you?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. Always do.”
“Right. You said you’re a fixer, a solution finder.”
“You got it.” I click my tongue.
He looks me over as if I’m the overtired one. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I look around and then snap my fingers. “I’ll hire a car usingthe Ride app on my phone. Likely, it’ll be costly since I have a limit to what I can charge for my personal travel expenses—but not players’—to the home office.
I ignore how his brow drops, suggesting he disapproves.
“I’ll see if there’s an economy option or rideshare to Maple Falls. Or at least halfway there. Maybe my cousin Savanna can pick me up at a rest stop,” I say, thinking out loud.
Have I mentioned that with the original flight delay time difference, it’s well after midnight—nearly dawn? Based on my calculations, I should get to Maple Falls in plenty of time for the wedding this evening.
Carson shakes his head. “You can’t take a rideshare all the way to Maple Falls.”
Clearing my throat, I repeat a quote I read in a success coaching book, “‘Plans don’t always need to be easy or perfect. Just doable.’” I try to convince myself that’s true.
Carson loads his bag into the back of the Jeep and then strides over to me, prying my bag from my arm.
“What are you doing? My mother warned me about transit scams.”
His brow creases. “You’re coming with me, though I hope I don’t regret this.”
I scuttle after him as he plops my bag next to his. A copy ofA Farewell to Armsby Ernest Hemingway pokes out of the outer pocket.
I point. “Some light reading?”
“To unwind.”
“I enjoy westerns.” I leave off theromancepart to avoid any implications and maintain professional boundaries. Though I think he hails from Alabama, which is in the South. Either way, I’m in it for the accent and manly charms—fictionally, of course.
Ignoring my comment, tired, or both, Carson says, “Let’s get going.”
I’m about to protest and decline his offer, but that would be stupid since I don’t have any other obvious options and becausehe opens the passenger side door for me … like a Southern gentleman.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small because I’m not used to such gestures.
He programs the nearest coffee drive-through into his GPS and asks what I’d like.
“To rewind. That was quite possibly the worst flight ever. I am so sorry. If you’re asked to write a performance review, please?—”
He stops me. “It was an adventure.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
When we reach the drive-through, he orders a coffee with cream and nods to me.
