Page 59 of Skating and Fake Dating
Me: Are you saying I have a creamy middle?
Clara: I’m talking about Oreos.
The little dots in the text bubble blink for a long minute. She’s either replying with an essay or has been distracted. When my phone dings again, she uses all caps to suggest that I might be making excuses because I’m scared.
Clara may have a point because my heart cannot handle being broken again, especially not by someone like Carson.
I drift to sleep, arguing with myself about what’s true and dreaming about my charming cowboy on the dusty road. Only, instead of riding a horse, he’s astride a hockey stick.
Dreams are so weird, but what about desires?
A few days later, I have a meeting at the Ice Breakers’ administrative offices to review my PAL duties along with Carson and Asher’s progress.
Afterward, #49 and I grab coffee at Falling for Books to discuss the meeting and his adjustment to the team.
My mother appears from behind a bookshelf, startling me.
“Mom? What are you doing here?”
“Browsing for books, obviously.”
“You don’t read recreationally.”
“Maybe I’ve taken up a new hobby.” She shelves a book she held upside down in her hands. Likely story. “Anyway, I wanted Carson to join us for dinner. Get to know the future addition to the family without the fuss of a wedding. Nanna said you wereat the farm the other day and I couldn’t help but wonder why you’re not spending more time at home.”
“I’ve been working, remember?”
“Sure. Right. But be home for dinner.” She turns to Carson, who appears with our beverages. “You too.”
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” he says, highlighting his Southern accent.
Several hours later, blowing out a breath, we park in my parents’ driveway. I’m trying to remember the last time I was this nervous about a family dinner. Probably never. I smooth down the front of my dress and glance at Carson, who looks infuriatingly calm in his button-down shirt and dark jeans.
“Ready?” he asks, his dimple appearing as he smiles.
“As I’ll ever be. Remember, my mother will ask intrusive questions, my father will be suspiciously quiet until he isn’t, and my sister and her attorney skills will stop at nothing to catch us in a lie.”
“I thought she lived in Chicago.”
“Odette travels by air the way some people use the subway.”
“I’ve faced NHL defensemen who wanted to knock my teeth out. I think I can handle the Porter family interrogation.” He takes my hand and squeezes it reassuringly.
The problem isn’t whether Carson can handle my family—it’s whether I can handle pretending to be in a relationship with him when the lines have started to blur in my mind—in Nanna’s kitchen, the orchard, and well before that.
Mom opens the door before we even knock. “There you are! Always running late, Bailey. Some things never change.”
“Hello, Mrs. Porter,” Carson says, turning on that Southern charm. “I brought these for you.” He hands her a bouquet of flowers that he must’ve had in the backseat of the Jeep—his truck is due for delivery tomorrow.
Mom actually blushes. “Aren’t you thoughtful! Please, call me Taffy.”
Inside, the chaos is immediate. My parents’ golden retriever,Margaret, bounds up to greet Carson like an old friend. My cousins race through the living room playing tag, and the smell of pot roast fills the air.
Dad emerges from his den, eyeing Carson as if meeting him for the first time—as if this time it really matters. Does it? It’s the same look he gives when listening for a suspicious car noise. “Hello, hockey player.”
“Hello, sir. Thank you for having me in your home again.” He extends his hand.
They shake, and I see Dad’s expression soften slightly—the big ole teddy bear. “Bailey says you’re from Alabama?”
