Page 67 of The Kiss Class

He claps my shoulder. “I appreciate you keeping your mother’s traditions alive.”

Guilt slaps me on the ears because Pierre and I started some of our own. I should come clean, and tell him the truth, but I’d hate to see the Knights lose their defenseman and for my father to go to jail on Christmas Morrow-Morrow or whatever today is called.

“I have a meeting and some calls, but I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” His phone beeps and he hurries down the hall, flagging down Helen.

Realizing I was holding my breath, I exhale and slouch against the wall when the nearest door opens, a large hand grabs my wrist, and tugs me inside.

A little yelp escapes at the same time a thrill rushes across my skin when I meet Pierre’s eyes. For so long, I was afraid of what would happen if I lingered too long on them. Now I know and I want more of it.

Merry Kiss Me kisses, kisses under the mistletoe, Christmas kisses, and kisses all year long.

But that’s not all. I want to be in a better mood for our reunion, but I can’t push past the clutter in my head because I don’t know what shape my future, no less ours, could take.

“Dadaszek wants dinner and I want you and—” I fret, pressing my hands to my face.

Pierre peels them away, kissing my graphite-stained fingers.

“I’m tired of being a student but don’t knowwhat to do. I don’t want to go back to Los Angeles and school. Where else would I go?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Home.

Like when I confessed about being told my drawings were just doodles and feared I was wasting my intelligence, which formed a kind of pressure I still live under, Pierre somehow knows just what I need. Pulling me into a snug hug, I let a few tears fall and melt into his strong frame. Nothing and no one, not even Ken Laangbroek, the goon for the Blizzard, can knock him down.

“Am I having a quarter-life crisis?” I ask.

“That would be at twenty-five years old. I thought you were twenty-six.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.” My voice is a whisper.

Pierre’s is solid. “I like who you are.”

Leaning back and meeting his eyes, I say, “On top of everything, my sisters keep sending me photos and contact information for guys, still trying to set me up with someone. However, I think they’re just trying to smoke me out and get me to come clean about us. Our little secret.”

He nods. “No one is allowed to date the coach’s daughter. What if I retire?”

“What? No! You’re at the top of your career.”

“Nothing like quitting a winner.”

“Just to date some chick?”

“Not some chick. Not a puck bunny. Not even Santa’s elf. A gorgeous, intelligent, funny, and thoughtful smoke show.” His lips quirk.

I lift my eyebrows. “Clearly, you don’t know me. I’m not a?—”

He plants his forefinger over my mouth. “I think part of theproblem is you’re trying to be the person others expect you to be. Who you think you should be. I’m a bit familiar with that.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Nat, the nutritionist, would say to go organic. By that, I mean just let things unfold naturally. If you want to draw, draw. If you want to help me save the Christmas Market by taking on a role with the Cobbiton CAC, do that. If you think you could be your dad’s new assistant, he’s hiring.”

None of that means being a student anymore and all of it sends a little flickery flare of interest through me along with a grip of trepidation.

“What about Helen?”

“She said she should’ve retired five years ago. She wants to spend time with her grandkids—” He goes on to describe them in detail per Helen’s frequent brag book shares. “I’ve been in Badaszek’s office a lot lately.”

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