Page 59 of Jingle Belle's Biker

“It’s Sunday.”

“There’s a special art thing we do for Christmas, and the art teacher needs to go home as she’s got food poisoning. Can we continue this later?”

“Sure.”

I know, as she dashes off, that it’s not going to come up again.

Chapter Thirteen

Belle

“Don’t float,” I say under my breath. “Do not float.”

“What are you on about?”

I glare at Hannah, while wearing my happy-nothing-to-see-here face, which is hard to do. “Like I told you in the car, nothing. Shouldn’t you be at the library?”

“I don’t work there today, and if I remember right,” she says, dipping a brush in paint and applying it to the paper, “in the car, I asked why you looked happy, and hello. Not in that order.”

“I said hello—no Thomas, don’t paint Sarah. Paint the paper.” I glance at her as Clark takes the glue and, with his tongue sticking out, attempts to stick cotton wool on his wobbly, fat, stick-legged Santa. “Later, Hannah.”

She shrugs and starts on a reindeer. This is something we do every year. She likes to come along and post art at the library and then hang the wishes on the tree there. The wishes aren’t meant to be toys or loot or whatever the kid wants, but things for others. Some of them want peace, others to stop climate change, and one girl wants to help build rockets to populate Mars.

“I know you did this last year, but . . . why don’t you take the helm, officially? Every year?” She doesn’t look up.

In the far corner, Niles, one of the fifth-grade teachers, is attempting to draw an elf, much to the laughter of the children around him.

“We split it up so everyone gets a turn. There are . . .” I look around. “Four other teachers. And you and the art teacher, Kat, are usually the mainstays. She likes it. I’m not kicking her out of the job. Besides, I don’t have that power.”

She looks up at me, wickedness dancing in her gaze. “You’ve got some power. I can see it. Whisker burn. And is that a hickey?”

“Shut up.” I fluff my hair. Clark watches avidly.

Somehow, the floatiness is still there, inside. Little flutters whisper against my stomach as the images her words evoke dance. Damn it.

“Nope.” Hannah rises, handing her brush to Clark. “So, what you were just muttering about is . . . tall? Tattooed? Bearded and hot? Stop me when I’m red hot like those special injections he’s giving you.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Maybe.” She sighs. “He’s so hot.”

Clark’s head bounces back and forth. Then focuses on Hannah. “Who’s hot? Has someone got a fever?”

“Miss Rosso,” Hannah says.

“I do not!”

He frowns. “Mommy said I’m not allowed to get sick.” Clark looks hopefully around for the ill person.

“No one’s sick. Miss Hannah is joking.” I nod to the far-right corner. “Go see what Mr. Bloom’s doing.”

He trots off to the fourth-grade teacher who’s wrestling with paper and safety scissors.

“Well?”

I glare at her. “You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“You told me.”

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