Page 53 of Skating and Fake Dating
She leans in, expectant.
“Top secret. I’ll ask you later.”
She fidgets as if telling herself to be patient. “All right. I’ll text you the address and see you in an hour.”
“I’ll be there.” I stash my purchases at the rental house, give Asher a high five as I hurry back out the door, and drive toward the hills, winding my way out of town. The clusters of houses give way to pasture land, scattered with trees that fill in with thick forests occupied by cedars, spruce, and other conifers. The landscape is altogether different from Alabama, but the clear sky and easy-to-breathe air remind me of when I’d visit my grandparents out in the country for the summer.
Wearing a thin vest over a sweater and comfortably worn in, fitted jeans, Bailey greets me on the wide front porch of a well-lived-in farmhouse. There’s something about her posture and relaxed smile that suggests this place is more of a home to her than her parents’ colonial with the columns and red front door.
The scent of something freshly baked mingles with her vanilla and maple syrup scent. A border collie sniffs me and then wanders off. Inside, a hound dog naps by the hearth as thunder rumbles.
My mistake, the sound was caused by a massive black and tan beast barreling in my direction. I’m not afraid of dogs, but this animal is nearly my size—if I were to drop on all fours.
“Tiny,” Bailey says in a tone that is both authoritative and loving at the same time.
The Great Dane halts, her tongue drops out of her mouth, and she stares expectantly.
Bailey strokes the dog’s head and says, “How do we greet visitors?”
The dog makes a whining sound and then plops to her haunches.
“Okay. Say hello.” Bailey snaps her fingers.
Tiny lifts her paw in a half-wave, half-shake motion.
Taking my wrist, Bailey says, “You can shake hands.”
Crouching, I do, and the dog meets my eyes with a strange kind of awareness as if she approves of me being here. I want to be amused, but I’m also keenly aware that dogs are much smarter than we give them credit for. I always wanted one, but Mom said I could visit Gran and Grandaddy whenever I wanted because they had a Pyrenees, which amounted to holidays and summer visits.
“She’s a gentle giant … and my best friend.” Bailey throws her arms around the dog, who is, in fact, not at all tiny.
Nanna cuts up a fresh batch of blondies and gives Tiny a chew toy. We sit down at the table and I say, “Well, what do we have here, Blondie?”
“Blondies,” Nanna says as if that weren’t obvious.
Bailey squishes up her face. “Yeah. We don’t need to rehash that mortifying moment.”
Nanna’s eyebrow arches as she pours us each a small glass of milk.
I say, “Was it mortifying? I thought it was adorable.”
“Which is why you laughed me out of the room?”
“I didn’t—” I clamp my mouth shut at the sadness in Bailey’s hazel eyes. Tiny gets to her feet and rests her giant muzzle on Bailey’s shoulder. She leans into the dog and they share a moment.
As if wanting to redirect the conversation, Nanna says, “So, you’re the one who got my Bailey smiling again. Tell me how you met.”
Or not. I take it she didn’t buy the story we fumbled and then coaxed into something like a meet-cute when her sister had asked.
I point at the tray. “Officially, we met over a version of these.”
Nanna lights up. “Bailey is an exceptional baker.”
We look at her and then each other, and the innocence of the comment makes us both break into laughter.
When Bailey catches her breath, she tucks her hair behind her ear. “And I’m exceptionally clumsy. Since I was late on my first day working at the Ice Palace in Cobbiton, I wanted to make a better impression—and apologize—on my second day. I was nervous, so I baked, you guessed it, Nanna’s famous blondies. They’re my favorite. I thought it would be cute to make them special, so I cut them up, added blue buttercream frosting, red and white heart sprinkles—Knights colors—a drizzle of maple butter, and,” she eyes the dog and gives her a good scratch, “B-A-C-O-N bits. The team nutritionist was not pleased with me, chewed me out, and then I stumbled. The blondies, each nestled in their own baking cups, went flying.”
“I caught one and you,” I interject.
