Page 17 of The Kiss Class

Like a cat following a bouncing ball, I watch the verbal volley. I should probably make my way to the exit, but my real-life knight (as opposed to Nolan, who I was texting) still has his arm around me. I cannot deny that it’s a pleasant and protectiveweight. Unlike Richard’s slimy grasp, I’m not eager to squirm away.

Then I remember that I’m not a damsel. “I’m not interested in a date with you or raisins. No dried fruit for this peach,” I splutter at Richard.

He looks at me blankly, not getting the pun, which tells me that not only is he a crude jerk but also lacks a sense of humor.

The knight murmurs. “If I had a fruitcake leftover from last year, I’d throw it at this guy.”

Richard continues, “Come on, Carla, Carrie—what was your name?—come back to my hotel,” Richard says, eyes unfocused and definitely delusional.

The knight’s jaw ticks.

I rapidly shake my head. “That’s a solid no.” I am not remotely interested in Chard. There are a lot of problems with his statement, but I’m not about to reveal my identity. I’ll stick with being the knight’s pretend girlfriend, thank you very much.

“She’s with me,” he replies in a warning tone.

“I know all about your reputation. Prove that she’s your girlfriend.” Richard rocks back on his heels and then reaches out to a passing waiter to stabilize himself.

The knight’s blue eyes, flecked with silver, land on me with a wink. He spins me around and says, “She’s wearing my jersey. Number seventy-four.”

I am?

Doing my best to ignore Richard’s simmering and building rage at his bruised ego, I glance over my shoulder at the jersey from the Caravan. I can’t read the last name, but sure enough, I see the upside-down number seventy-four.

I turn so I’m facing them again. “Get lost, Chard.”

My knight says, “She’s mine.”

“Half the puck bunnies in this place are wearing your jersey,” Richard says.

At risk of blowing my cover, I peer around, wondering about the last name printed across the top.

“You want me to prove she’s my girlfriend?” Number seventy-four smirks. Smolders? Then glances overhead.

I follow his gaze to a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in red ribbon hanging above us. My jaw lowers slightly.

“I’ve been wanting to get you under one of these,” he says, sticking with the girlfriend story.

Our gazes connect for one long moment that sends a shaky breath through me. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. His crinkle at the corners, holding both mischief and making me melt.

My eyebrows cram together. Words gather but don’t form on my lips.

He bites his, intention etched on his features.

An inner buzz builds inside.

His head dips toward mine.

My inhale catches.

His lips part ever so slightly.

My surroundings, the sounds in the room, and Richard’s presence fade along with all my sisters’ dating nonsense.

Right now, it’s justhim, me, and the Christmas sweater. A funny thought enters my mind: a guy who can get away with wearing that and still look good, who intercepted Chard—who turned out to be the biggest dud on record—and whose lips are so perfect is definitely worthy of a kiss.

But not like this.

I draw back and inhale, realizing I was holding my breath . . . along with seemingly everyone else in O’Neely’s. Whispers breeze through the room and then grow into chatter, echoing from every direction.

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