Page 19 of The Kiss Class

“Here is better,” I whisper.

His eyebrow lifts with surprise.

“Really?” he asks in a soft yet surprised tone.

“Really.” I nod.

The space between my knight and me closes.

His hand cups my cheek and the other curls gently around my neck with his thumb on my jaw. Our lips connect.

The press of his mouth to mine is warm, soft, and entirely pleasant. Like a pleasant rain and not old minivan sunroof water. He smells spicy like cinnamon, like home during the holidays. His grip that wraps toward the nape of my neck is firm, protective, and welcome as he lingers there, lips against mine. My fingers splay across his shoulders, a pair of immovable boulders under the red sweater.

When we part, his flirty blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, hold mine for a long moment. “Yeah, my girlfriend,” he says, voice husky.

My heart skips, not only a beat but across a meadow, through a field of wildflowers to the top of a hill, and straight up to the clouds in the sky, to a time when the world still made sense because that kiss knocked me out of orbit.

CHAPTER FOUR

At first, my “girlfriend”doesn’t kiss me back. She’s frozen, possibly in shock. But she quickly thaws and returns the kiss, but only enough to leave me wanting more.

More of her baby powder scent. More of her soft skin. More of those hazel eyes that convey possibilities and promises that I feel certain a woman, so bright yet reserved, would never consider breaking.

“Yeah,” she whispers, possibly confirming my comment . . . or, though more unlikely, my thoughts.

I grip her hand in mine, a united front against the guy she called Chard.

There I was, minding my own business, playing darts, and wearing the ugliest sweater on the planet, but that’s beside the point. It was a rare moment in public when I wasn’t swarmed by people. Could have to do with the sweater warding off women.

I’ll admit that I was a bit butthurt that Badaszek didn’t pick me for Santa. Beau is so grumpy he’s going to scare the kidsaway. Is it wrong that being passed over makes me want to do whatever it is the coach wants?

What better way to start than by a rowdy game of darts with the team?

But every time I waited for my turn, my attention got pulled to my phone, the pretty girl sitting alone across the room, or the son-of-a-puck who was boasting to a table full of women about being recruited to the Knights and how he was going to be the greatest defenseman of all time. Pfft. My hockey backside. The loser, who turned out to be Chard, is merely on the prowl for puck bunnies and then made an obviously unwanted and unacceptable advance at the cutest girl in the room.

Meanwhile, I’m wearing invisible handcuffs, having vowed to keep my distance from them tonight. Though it’s not much of a challenge given this hand-knit opposite-sex repellent, I’m compelled to wear. There are braided epaulets on the shoulders, an embroidered kitten patch with a bell, and a sequence of sequins that I think is supposed to signify snow.

Yet here I am, locking lips with the prettiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s a modest five feet five or so, has honey-brown hair worn in a braid, and an oval face with smooth features.

This is unexpected.

I get a head rush and am nearly dizzy when we part. Must’ve forgotten to breathe or something. Weird. That’s never happened when I’ve kissed a girl and I have plenty of experience. Not that I’m proud of that or anything.

She’s different.

Her hazel eyes pierce mine as if she sees beyond the external—the charming guy with a killer smolder that I show the world to the secretly insecure farm boy who’s stillwondering how he got here. Who sometimes wonders whether he belongs.

If looks could fill.

I linger in her gaze for a long moment, etching her image into my mind like one of those old drawing toys filled with silver sand. She has faint freckles and wears dangly earrings that look like Christmas baubles, sparkling when she moves.

So much sweetness and a bit of innocence.

The crowd erupts into arena-level clapping and cheering, hooting my last name and number seventy-four.

I glimpse Richard, red-faced with anger. He slinks away, and I hope this is the last I see of him. But maybe I should be thankful because had he not been a son of a puck, I wouldn’t have met the girl of my dreams. A surge rises inside, seizing my thoughts and leaving me with what feels, smells, and tastes a lot like a sudden crush. I only recognize the sensation because it happened only once before when I was in ninth grade.

---