Page 25 of Christmas Criminal

I raise my eyebrows, leaning against my car as I dig through my bag for my keys. "Whose Cheerios did you piss in to get that deal?"

His brow furrows. "I requested the chalkboard."

"You did? But it's so messy. And you know, chalky. You like having that texture on your hands all day?"

He shrugs, mirroring my lean and resting one elbow on top of my car. "I think there's something charming about it," he says. "When I was a kid we only had chalkboards at school. So when I decided to become a teacher, I kind of thought of that as part of the deal."

I nod. "You've romanticized your chalkboard." I hum. "I think you have Stockholm Syndrome, sir."

He laughs, turning to face the parking lot. "It's not like my chalkboard is holding me hostage."

"It's sure keeping you in the past."

He gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. "You can tear my chalkboard out of my cold, dead fingers. I don't care what you think about it. I like the chalk on my hands."

"To each their own. Personally, I prefer knives in my eyes."

He shakes his head while he laughs. "You really have a response for everything, don't you?"

"Not everything," I say, the viscerally remembering that cocky comment he made about neverwonderingwhen a woman comes.

I didn't have much to say tothat.

Other thanBet.

I tug my timecard out of my bag and hand it to him. He signs quickly, copying one row down to the next, and hands it back to me. "There you go, Criminal."

"Thank you," I say, replacing it in my bag and letting out a long breath as I look up at him. I swallow, because I swear he's giving mekiss meeyes.

Or maybe it's me giving himkiss meeyes.

He moves forward a smidge, and for a second I think he might.

But he only pats the top of my car and reaches for the driver's side handle. He pulls it open and gestures for me to get in.

"Get home safe," he says.

"Thanks.”

And he closes the door on me.

When I get backto my mom's house, she has Christmas music on full blast and an array of presents scattered across the living room floor. She's wearing a Santa hat and drinking something out of a tea cup that's likely alcoholic, considering the way she flails when I walk in the door. Her frizzy brown hair is pulled into a long braid that falls over one shoulder as she moves.

"Noelle!" she screeches. "You weren't supposed to be home yet! Close your eyes!"

"Sorry," I say, holding a hand in front of my face as I move through the living room to my old bedroom.

The sound of crinkling paper almost drowns out the tune ofJingle Bell Rockplaying through the speakers. She stacks all of the presents I wasn't supposed to see underneath the coffee table and covers it with a red and white striped blanket.

Her house is a small bungalow with an open floor plan and high ceilings. The kitchen and living rooms are separated only by a plushy gray couch, and off to one side, a staircase brings you to the bedrooms upstairs.

I head for the stairs, doing my best to avoid the shrine to my sister and me that covers the wall.

"Wait, honey!" my mom calls, scrambling to her feet and following me. "How was community service? Were you with the math teacher again?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'll probably be with him for at least the near future," I say.

My mom crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the wall before her. She gives me a sly grin that tells me the small town gossip chain is alive and well. "Hank said the two of you are getting along well."

---