Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Beau’s six simple words I know just where to go scramble and rearrange themselves into sounding something like I don’t want to go which is officially in the thesaurus as a synonym for I don’t want tonight to end .
Or maybe that’s the hopeful optimist in me. However, if I were to be less kind to myself—a la my mother, sister, and relatives—too dumb to be alive.
I’m racing into the night with a veritable stranger. Snowbanks flank the sides of the road and slush lines the gutters, yet the cement sparkles in a way that makes the hope that he’s different, special rebound like a boomerang.
Beau stops abruptly and something lights in his eyes. He tears off his jacket and then drapes it over my shoulders.
I tug it close around me, getting a hint of his scent. “Thank you.”
We continue walking until we reach an alleyway.
I hesitate. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you’re worried I’m going to drag you down here and—” He slices his throat. “No. It’s the back entrance.”
Glancing around, I recognize we’re behind the Ice Palace, the Knights’ arena, which doubles as a convention center. I’ve been here a few times over the years, once for a bridal show with my mother and another time for a golf expo with my dad.
Never for hockey.
Why would Beau bring us here?
“For your information, I don’t wander into strange alleys with strange men. We’re hardly on a first-name basis.”
He takes a few steps closer to me. The dim light makes his green eyes dark, but I’m not afraid. I get the sense he’d sooner throw himself in front of a moving train or the dumpster fire on trolley wheels that is my family than hurt me.
His voice is indeed splendid with his subtle accent when he says, “A strange man? You know that I’m Beau Hammer.”
True, he’s not particularly odd—according to Juniper’s “Male Scale,” he probably qualifies as normal, but just to be safe, I ask, “What’s your middle name?” If it’s Tate, I’ll take that as a sign to run away.
“Francois.” His accent is something of an afterthought, but it appears when he says this.
“That’s fancy.”
“It means free man. Ironic,” he mutters.
“Are you nobility or something?”
Beau tucks his chin and his gaze narrows. “You’re cheeky, you know that.”
Even though I know what he means by cheeky, I glance over my shoulder at my backside, wondering anew if this dress flatters my figure. “My mother said I look like a can of pea soup stuffed in this garment.”
“Pardon my saying so but your mother is ridiculous.”
“Celeste added that I look like a can of pea soup with botulism.”
“She should lay off the Botox.”
Beau circles me in the dim light of the alley like a naval officer evaluating whether my dress whites are squared away.
When he stops in front of me, we stand toe to toe. He wears the closest thing that approximates a smile that I’ve seen all night. It lifts to his eyes and they shine. “You wear the dress well.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
My brow ripples as I call back an expression about how some people wear the clothes or the clothes wear them. Knowing I won’t extract a more satisfying answer out of him, I turn the tables.
“Are you a junior or a third?” I press, inquiring about his status.
“No.”
“Neither? Blink once if yes. Twice if no. Or is it the other way around?”
I lift my gaze to his and all I see is amusement.
“Moving on. Do you intend to name your firstborn Beau?” I ask.
“If it’s a boy, it could be taken under consideration, but that’s a decision his mother and I would make together.”
My ovaries sing a show tune.
“You’re lucky because you have a nickname, Beau. I rather like it.”
He turns sharply toward me, both eyebrows lifted. Otherwise, I can’t read his expression.
“I’m Margo Leann Cabot since you didn’t ask.”
“I was getting to it. You’re giving me the rapid-fire fourth degree.”
“The expression is third degree.”
“You asked four questions.” He starts walking, ushering me with a single finger tossed in the air. Stabbing a keypad next to a metal door that I didn’t notice, he opens it. Welcoming light spills onto the ground. “Get inside.”
I clear my throat, taken aback by his order. “Excuse me?”
He winces as if realizing how that sounded. “You must be cold with just my thin jacket and your feet must be killing you.”
I stare daggers at my high heels. He’s got that right.
Brushing past him, I say, “Just my luck that I’m fake engaged to the grumpiest goalie in hockey.”
“Who said I’m grumpy?”
“You don’t have to say it.”
“Who said we’re engaged?”
“It’s too late to change our story. I opened the window for that possibility already and the opportunity passed as we fled into the night,” I see breezily, brazenly if only to gauge his response.
The corner of his lip lifts upward. “I think you’ll like our hideout.”
Beau leads the way down a utilitarian hallway lined with pipes and industrial mechanisms that must run the rink.
“I’m not sure how many women you know, but we’re generally not into the creepy basement hallway vibe.” Juniper would totally have my back on this.
He doesn’t respond, but by the shift of his shoulders, I think he knows that I’m flirting.
I’m flirting?
No, I’m teasing him.
I try and fail to convince myself that’s accurate. It would be like a mouse teasing a lion. My sense of self-preservation remains intact even though I very much feel like he’s a lion and I’m a mouse. Better to flirt than get hurt.
Not that he would. If I know one thing about this man other than his full name, it’s that Beau is a protector and would sooner pull out his own toenails than cause someone he cares about physical harm—at least off the ice. But I fear getting hurt by traveling too far down Fantasyland Lane. He’s not actually my fiancé. This isn’t a bad night that turned magical and will result in one of the best memories of my life. More than likely, my mother, sisters, and the entourage will sniff out the lie and humiliate me, making this the latest thing I want to forget.
I scurry to keep up with Beau’s long strides. At the hastening of my click, clack, click, clack , he slows slightly.
“Where are we going?” I ask in an Are we there yet? tone.
“You’ll see.”
“Are these the bowels of the arena?”
“We call them tunnels, not to be confused with the tunnel that exits onto the rink.”
“Are you a mole, burrowing underground?”
“Who’s questiony now? Be patient. We’re almost there.”
We go through another door and the hallway goes from a potential scene of a crime to a freshly painted sporty passageway with signs, emblems, and lots of Nebraska Knights swag.
We stop in front of a door labeled Locker Room .
After entering a code on a keypad, once more, Beau holds open the door for me.
Aghast, I point. “I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s boys only. Off-limits.”
He snorts like there’s something I don’t know. “You’re with me. It’s after hours on a Saturday. We’re the only people here.”
“But why?”
“Why are we the only ones here or why go inside?” The corner of his lip twitches like he knows my answer. “To get you something warmer to wear.”
I take two steps into the locker room and no farther. Beau seems to accept this and stops in front of a built-in wooden open-faced locker—kind of like the sandwich. I pat my stomach, wondering if I’m hungry. Beau picks through it. Empty-handed, he looks around. His massive shoulders lift and lower as if he’s rethinking his plan. Then, taking a pair of ice hockey skates that look like they’d fit a giant, he clasps my hand and leads me down the hall. The way his fingers fit around mine is like one of those full-body plastic-coated metal safety harnesses on a theme park ride.
Keep your hands inside at all times, kids ...
However, he doesn’t have to keep his hands to himself. I like the way this feels. It’s sweet, and apart from my weekly trips to Honey & Lavender, I don’t have much of that in my life.
We reach another door. From inside, Beau produces a Nebraska Knights sweatshirt. He holds it up to me and says, “That should work.” Dropping my hand and taking a couple of pairs of socks, he gestures for me to follow him again.
I think I know where this is going ... and I’m not going to like it because if I have two left dancing feet, I don’t stand a chance ice skating. I plant myself in the hallway. I’ll just be part of the arena décor from now on. A potted fern. I hope karma doesn’t keep people from watering me from time to time.
Beau is several long paces ahead when he realizes I’m no longer by his side. Turning slowly, he asks, “What?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t what?”
“Do what you want me to do.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“The first one.”
“It’s like ballroom dancing.”
I shake my head slowly. “Sure. Okay. Right. Then what makes you think I can skate?”
To my surprise, he marches over, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder.
I squeak and protest, but he doesn’t even grunt with the effort.
“My fiancée is going to skate with me whether she likes it or not, but I think she’s going to like it.”
All this talk about actually being this man’s fiancée has me confused.
I could protest, pound on his back, and demand he put me down, but the pressure off my feet is the most welcome feeling—along with the warmth of his strong, solid body.
A long, luxurious sigh escapes as the blood rushes to my head and my hair hangs loose. My stomach turns somersaults. Even without an audience of doubters about our engagement, if I’m not mistaken, this would be classified as flirting.
When we reach the rink, Beau sets me down and meets me with his green-eyed gaze. It should rock me. Instead, I feel steady. Then again, I’m not yet on the ice.
We sit on a bench and he has me put on huge, thick socks. He tugs on his skates and ties the laces.
“How is this going to work?” I ask.
With practiced ease, Beau slides onto the ice, spins a circle, and then fills the doorway between the backer boards with his hands outstretched. “Just step onto my toes.”
“Like a daddy-daughter dance?”
He levels me with a sharp-eyed stare. “No, not like that. I can’t be that much older than you.” Then his voice softens. “But also yes, like that.”
I step onto the toes of his skates, our bodies pressed together, even closer than we were when we danced at the wedding reception. With his arms looping my waist and me hanging on for dear life, he glides around the rink smoothly, securely, and rhythmically. It’s almost like being rocked in a cradle. With my cheek pressed to his chest, I breathe in his crisp northern air and wheat-dried-in-the-sun scent. It fills my lungs and I turn sleepy like a cat in the afternoon. My limbs relax and my thoughts disperse.
A humming sound comes from somewhere and it takes me a beat to realize it’s Beau. It’s altogether pleasant, easeful. I can’t tell the song, but the rumble from his chest and throat is deep, resonant, and smooth. Does this giant of a grumpy goalie sing?
What’s happening and who I’m with floats into my awareness. Just as I start to spiral with questions that point to insecurities layered with fears, Beau whooshes me into his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. It’s then I realize that despite my mother and sister hassling me about my size and shape, for Beau, I may as well be a feather.
I tip back my head and let out a whoop as we glide. He snorts a laugh and his eyes light as he picks up the pace, racing along the rink.
Smiling and hair blowing, I say, “Beau, you’re going too fast.”
“You think this is fast?” He puts on another burst of speed, his legs pumping. The icy air fills my lungs, and his grip is so strong, that I know he won’t let me fall.
The problem is, I could fall for this man. It would be so easy for him to break my heart.
Much like when we were dancing at the wedding, our faces are close. His freckles aren’t countable, but they’re visible enough for me to stare at them like clouds, trying to see shapes. The lighter flecks in his green eyes flash dark when I meet his gaze. If there was ice there, it’d melt. His lips quirk in such a way that makes me think of a four-letter word that starts with the letter K and ends with an S .
Then he slows, setting me gently down on the other side of the boards. He does a cool-down lap while I catch my breath even though he was the one doing the work.
Surprisingly sensitive to the ongoing state of my feet after trying to cram them into high heels because my mother says Ladies wear flattering footwear , Beau calls a car service to bring us the three blocks to the parking lot at the wedding venue.
For the record, I wouldn’t have said no to him carrying me.
From inside, the DJ music continues to play. I imagine the dance floor full of my inebriated and judgy family. For once, I got the better deal. I wouldn’t trade our slow skating for anything.
I slide my shoes back on, prepared for tonight to end, and sorta, kinda wish I was Cinderella. I’d lose a glass slipper while fleeing as the bells strike midnight. Then he’d traverse the land with the single shoe I’d lost, seeking the match and the perfect fit for his one true love.
Instead, Beau is quiet yet contemplative, which I’m starting to think is his natural, resting state.
He doesn’t pay the driver which makes me think this is a hockey player perk. I’m really starting to like this sport. And maybe the goaltender too.
Beau walks me to my rental car.
“Well, thank you for being a wonderful fake fiancé.” I take out my keys, resigning myself to the fact that it’s time to return to the dating board. I’ll quietly slip back to New York, tell my family that it didn’t work out between us, and hope they don’t egg the ice at the next Knights game. Not that they’d defend my honor, but still.
“Yeah. It was something,” he says.
Least romantic line ever. Okay then. I’ll be going. I clasp my key, but I’m chilly and my hands tremble.
He lingers and I can’t help but wonder if I should hug him or if we should shake hands, putting this business deal to bed.
“Um, if I can ever repay the favor ...”
Lifting one hand awkwardly, he waves a bit and says, “Well, goodnight.”
“And sleep tight,” I blurt and then giggle. “I have no idea why I said that.”
Beau’s eyes sparkle like he wants to laugh but is waiting on a replacement part for his chuckle machine.
He turns to walk away, shoulders square and broad, with no hesitation or pause. Not even a glance over his shoulder. I watch him for a long moment, wondering what life would be like if we were engaged or married, and went home together, recapping the highlights—and let’s be real, this is my family we’re talking about, the lowlights—of the night. Maybe we’d stop somewhere for tea or cocoa. Snuggle up in front of the fire at home. I’ve never really thought about life after marriage, only that it needs to happen—in all caps NEEDS—to pacify my mother so I stop facing her scrutiny.
A shiver of sadness runs through me as I turn back to my rental car. Deep down, I don’t think it’ll ever stop. For whatever reason, I’m the family punching bag.
I don’t yet have the key in the rental car’s door—it was this clunker or not pay rent this month—when footsteps pound my way.
A rush of nervousness makes me fumble, but I see it’s only Beau, hurrying back to me.
Guilt getting the better of me, I say, “I might be a liar, but I’m not a thief. I left the socks you loaned me at the arena.”
His lip quirks at the corner. “But you still have the sweatshirt on.”
I glance down and start to peel it off. “I can?—”
“No, keep it. It has my name and number on the back.”
“Your phone number?”
“My hockey number—one. Netminders are often number one or thirty. Superstition. Tradition. Whatever.” He says a few things about paying homage to past players. While at the Ice Palace and any time the subject of hockey comes up, his energy shifts slightly. I imagine him younger and more carefree. Less stoic maybe?
My thoughts turn audible. “I like you, Beau. Just the way you are. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever been fake engaged to or dated in the past. That’s a good thing because my sister can tell you all about my lousy relationships.”
“About that. I had an idea.” He scratches his beard.
“If you’re going to ask me to marry you so you can get your green card, no, I’m sorry. That’s not a fair trade.”
His eyes twinkle. “Earlier, you said you’d do anything.”
“Are you serious?” I step closer and whisper, “You know that’s illegal, right?”
“And pretending to your family that we’re engaged isn’t immoral?”
He’s got me there.
His lips quirk. “Not to worry. My work visa is legit. I’m not at risk of being deported.”
I slouch back, relieved. But I am worried. Having a mini freak-out over here because I have no idea where he’s going with this.
Beau says, “I’d like to make a proposal that does involve marriage though.”
I feel the pinch between my eyebrows forecasting an incoming headache. “What are you talking about?”
“A marriage of convenience.”
Fretting, I stutter, “A fake fiancé and now a fake wedding?” What did I get myself into?
Shivering, once more, I fumble my rental car keys. Only this time they slip out of my hand and fall directly through the sewer grate.