Page 78 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Tiny could be the mascot.”
I chuckle.
“You should give it a shot. Your products are too good to keep a secret in this small town.”
“Says the man who travels to a different city every week. Some of us like our roots.”
“I like your roots, too. Maple Falls is more than I expected.”
I nuzzle into him. “We do have a certain charm.”
“You sure do,” he says, voice low.
Carson’s fingers trace idle patterns on my shoulder, lifting little bumps on my arms even though I’m cozy under his flannel.
“Once I’m settled in, you’ll be uprooting again, right?”
“If I can manage to keep my position as a PAL. I’m always late, slightly disorganized, and on my last performance review, was dubbed a ‘creative spirit.’”
“Is that so bad?”
“Carson, it’s a synonym for ‘hot mess.’” While the words are audible, something about them doesn’t quite ring true. Finding my voice, I add, “But lately I’ve been wondering if I’m trying to fit myself into the wrong box.”
“Maybe so. It could be that our recent detour got you onto the exact route you’re meant to be on.”
My breath softens and something eases inside of me. “For someone so put together and practical, you have a surprisingly romantic outlook. Are you sure you don’t believe in love?”
Straightening and mock-serious, he says, “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“I thought that’s why we’re in a fake relationship, to repair your image so you come across as more stable. Sorry that the joke is on you,” I say, reverting to my typical self-deprecation.
Carson shifts to look at me directly. “Bailey, I’ve seen you juggle my insane schedule along with helping some of the other players, pacify angry reporters, coordinate with multiple teams, and still find time to make and jar your maple butter. You’re nota hot mess. You’re extraordinary.” He clears his throat. “And hot.”
His words hit me with unexpected force and my cheeks shine. Yet, I can’t quite muster his enthusiasm. “Then why doesn’t it feel that way? Why am I always one mistake away from complete catastrophe?”
“Because you care so deeply about everything you do.” His hand finds mine in the darkness. “It’s one of the things I—” He stops abruptly.
“One of the things youwhat?” But the words sound more like a dare, my defying him to find something good about me when I face so much criticism. It comes from my family, even though they mean it jokingly. But mostly, I’m the source, having taken on the burden of self-doubt.
“One of the things that I—” The rest of the sentence dangles, no punctuation. Maybe he fears that if he finishes his thought, we’ll take another detour, one we can’t come back from.
CHAPTER 32
BAILEY
In the chilly basement, I shiver and Carson snugs me closer and I lean into his warmth, his scent, his strength, and all the possibilities of how he could’ve ended his sentence about the things he—Admires? Adores? Likes? Loves?—about me.
In a comforting tone, he says, “In the old days, people used root cellars to keep things cold. I imagine this is no exception.”
“You’re from the city. What do you know about root cellars?”
“I spent the summers at my grandparents’ farm.”
“And you’re just mentioning this now?”
“That might be why I enjoyed visiting your Nanna so much. It’s a different kind of rustic than down South, but the same comfortable, lived-in yet functional feel of home.”
“That’s a great way to describe it.” My conversation with Teddy and Harlow from earlier floats into my mind and a long sigh escapes.
