Page 63 of The Kiss Class

In a haze, I realize this is that first kiss feeling. It’s both surreal and solid, with the brush of Pierre’s stubble against my cheek, the hammering of my heart in my chest, and the swoopy flutters rushing through me.

Eventually, we part, snuggling up in front of the hearth. He releases the softest of sighs at the same time one escapes from me. We’re quiet. No words need to be spoken because the kiss says it all.

Kissing Pierre has broken my brain in the best of ways. The glowing lights on the Christmas tree wear halos. The flames in the fireplace are a blur. His warmth and steadiness beside me is like a mountain I was brave enough to scale.

“Whoa,” I whisper.

Pierre and I melt together on the couch cushions.

He asks, “‘Whoa’ like I’d like seconds, please? Or ‘Whoa’ like that was a close call, and I’m going to back away slowly?”

Curling myself into his arms, I say, “Definitely the first one.”

I draw his lips to mine, helping myself to seconds, er, our third kiss of the night.

His nickname, “The Frenchman,” was not undersold.

However, soon after we part, knots wrap themselves tight in my stomach. I don’t want to land on Santa’s naughty list next year, so I can’t keep lying. Pierre had me at that first Merry Kiss Me moment. But I don’t know whether he feels the same.Then there’s the saga about how we made up an outrageous story about a past relationship that doesn’t exist. My brain revs up, overwhelming me with questions.

I ask, “What’s going to happen when the holidays are over and we go back to our real lives?”

“This is my real life.”

“My father is a central part of that, and if you haven’t noticed, he’s not here.”

“I’ve noticed.” Pierre pauses, gazing at the fire. “I’ll have to talk to him.”

“You’ve been in his office?—”

“Many times.”

“I can’t imagine that’ll go well.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Unless you’re saying that you don’t want to try to make it work.”

I recoil. “No, but what happens if we get caught? When I have to go back to Los Angeles? When puck bunnies swarm you like ants, lifting a hundred times their body weight and carry you off to their underground tunnels?”

“Are we talking about bunnies, ants, or beasts?”

I can’t bring myself to laugh.

Pierre squeezes my hand. I love his kisses, but holding hands is intimate in a different way. It feels especially meaningful. Since leaving home, it’s been me against the world, trying to survive in a competitive scholastic environment. While it was probably good to be away from home and gain some independence from my sisters, I’m built for strong connections. Pierre gives me that and so much more. His touch is assuring, soothing, and exciting.

But I’m afraid that’s not enough.

“I’ve always had a plan,” I whisper.

“Do you mean a rubric?”

I think about my lifelong schooling with everything spelledout. “I don’t know hownotto rely on a schedule of classes, a course load, an environment where a textbook contains whatever I need to know. In other words, I live a life where there are no unknowns.”

Pierre Arsenault, with his history is a big, handsome, and extremely kissable unknown. Yet he sits here quietly, listening, letting me sort through the loud jumble in my mind.

Shaking my head, I say, “I won’t be just another notch on your hockey stick.”

“No, you won’t.”

He gathers me into his arms and kisses the top of my head.

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