Page 46 of The Kiss Class

That’s when I get the idea for how I can keep the division between us clear and our story about how I’m not interested in him intact.

“Ilsa, can I borrow one of your dresses?” I’m looking for something a puck bunny would wear.

“Trying to make Pierre jealous?”

Not exactly, but how did she know it had anything to do with him? I stammer, “Why would I do that?”

Anna refills my coffee. “Because he’s not over you.”

“I saw the way he kept looking for you in the VIP box at the last game,” Ilsa adds.

I counter, “He was probably confused because he saw triple.”

“Do you mean that you didn’t tell him that you’re—?” Anna gestures to the three of us.

I wince because that makes me sound like a bad sister and like they’re not a central part of my life. The truth is I’ve hardly had a chance to tell Pierre anything because this big fabrication is morphing fast like a love potion science experiment gone awry.

Ilsa balances her chin on her fist, elbow on the counter, and looks me dead in the eyes. “What else don’t we know, Cara? Care to share your secrets?”

I’ll tell them everything soon. Dad too. First, I need to transform myself into a puck bunny. Not to make Pierre jealous or even for him to notice me. No, I want to blend in, go incognito . . . and maybe spy a little. See if he gets mobbed by women or brings it on himself.

I shower and groom—exfoliate, shave, pluck, and moisturize—using Ilsa’s fancy Australian products.

Pilfering our shared bathroom, I wear more makeup than I’ve collectively done since prom. Thankfully, my art skills help me with applying concealer, blending in the contouring stick, and dusting my face with powder and blush. I add matching sweeps of eyeliner, mascara, and a festive red lip. Makeup of any sort is well outside my routine, and my sisters are going to be so mad I didn’t let them take part in my makeover.

You don’t need to have spent your life around hockey to know that arenas are cold. Frigid actually. Showing a bit of extra skin sends a shiver through me. In addition to the red dress I borrowed from Isla, I paw through my drawer, looking for a pair of leggings, stockings, anything. Since most of my clothing is in Los Angeles, all that I can come up with are the red and white striped tights I wore senior year in high school for our Christmas Spectacular Spirit Day performance at the Christmas Market.

As I tug them on, this brings to mind how it’s the last year of our town’s market, so I’d better go back to soak it all in before it’s a mere memory. My heart clenches with homesickness even though I’m here. But not for long.

Glancing in the mirror, the red dress and candy cane stripes kind of work. Now for shoes. The pickings are slim, so I scoot to Anna’s closet because our feet are closest in size. Somehow,Ilsa’s are half a size bigger, not that the difference ever helped people tell us apart.

From downstairs, Isla hollers, “We’re heading over to the arena. The last one in is a rotten eggnog.”

She’s not a fan of the seasonal beverage.

I am. So is Pierre. This thought brings me right back to our clandestine class in his apartment. My inner temperature spikes. If I stay this warm, I won’t need a jacket tonight.

Anna yells. “Wait for us.” Feet thunder as she and Cal race across the house.

“I’ll just meet you there,” I call.

Doors slam, a truck starts, and they pull away, leaving me wishing for a Bannanna or a McMann of my own.

After rooting through Anna’s closet, I find a pair of boots that work . . . if I can walk in them. They’re black, have a four-inch heel, and reach the top of my calves with a ring of faux fur.

I take a look at myself in the long mirror at the end of the hallway. The red velvet dress hits mid-thigh and is skin-tight. The tights add a festive flair, and the boots are rather bunny-like. All I need is a cotton tail to complete the outfit.

Driving to the arena with the heat on full blast and wearing my pink jacket, I lament having to leave it in the car. But if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. Shoulders will be exposed, people!

When I find my sisters and a few family friends along with the Knights’ managerial staff, including Dad’s assistant Helen, who is like a grandmother, the VIP box falls silent except for the announcer welcoming each of the players from above.

“You look—” Ilsa starts.

“Like a Christmas elf.” Anna has on a headband with a mini Christmas tree on top, complete with blinking lights.

“I was going for puck bunny,” I mutter.

Anna holds up a headband with a jaunty green and red elfhat with a bell at the end and floofy pom poms on twisted pipe cleaners and stuffs it over my freshly styled hair.

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