Page 2 of Christmas Criminal

I bite my lip, determined not to say anything else to prove him right. Or start sniffing for s’mores.

"So are you from around here?" he asks.

I pop my lips. "Yup. Went to this godforsaken school for four years."

He nods. "Ah."

And the fact that I'm back in this stupid high school reminds me of everything I'm sure people thought about me when I left.

When my older sister got her dream job in Philadelphia and moved to the city, I went with her and never looked back. While she became a corporate badass, my mom subsidized her apartment so I could live in her spare room while I got my GED and applied to college in the city.

Afterward, I started freelancing as a web designer, and one client turned into another, and that client turned into one more.

Before I knew it, I was running a whole damn business by myself.

I'm doingso wellfor myself, but coming back here puts me right back where I was all those years ago. Uncomfortable in my own skin. In a place where one picture of your thigh with an eczema outbreak suddenly becomes proof that you have an STD.

Never mind the fact that you're a virgin.

I don't speak to anyone from high school anymore. My college friends have stuck by me, and I love them for that. But as far as high school goes? I was over and done with it almost a decade ago when I left.I only ever come back here to visit my mom.

My dad lives here too, but I save those visits for when I have a carton of eggs with no better use.

Unfortunatelythatsort of decision-making is exactly what landed me back in this high school doing community service.

"I take it you'renotfrom around here," I say, giving him a quick smile to cancel out the glare that settled on my face as we walked through my old torture chamber.

He shakes his head. "Moved here a few years ago. It's a nice town," he says, obviously not picking up on my hatred for it.

I opt to not burst his bubble. If he wants to believe this place is all sunshine and daisies, good for him.

He leans against the garage door, popping it with his hip and holding it open for me.

The door clangs shut behind us, and I pause in the dim light filtering in through the tops of the garage doors while he takes a few steps along the wall and flips on the overhead lights.

We're bathed in blinding fluorescents as we walk toward a large trailer covered in a multitude of white sheets.

He grabs a sheet and pulls it gently off, leaving it in a pile between us. When I don't immediately follow, he looks over his shoulder at me. "Are you going to help?"

I purse my lips as I grab one, tugging it off and dropping it into the pile with Nick's.

"Is it just us, for community service?" I ask.

"There aren't many criminals in these parts," he explains, shooting me a quick grin that sends a little zip of heat down my spine.

A surprised laugh jumps from my throat. "Ah. Should have known." I remove another white sheet, revealing a number of streamers and a thick ball of tinsel stuck along one side of the trailer. The only sounds around us are the humming of the lights above and the pillowy drop of sheets against the floor.

And the silence finally gets me. "Aren't you going to ask me what I did?"

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and pauses. "But you can tell me if you want to."

I glare at him. "What, are you trying to reverse psychology me?"

"No. I'm saying that if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. But if you want to, that's fine, too."

I bite my lip as I watch him brush off one side of the trailer. He grimaces when a piece of a sticky streamer gets stuck on his hand and wipes it off on his jeans.

"Well, how did you get roped into doing community service?" I ask.

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