Page 38 of The Kiss Class

“Am I seeing triple?” Pierre asks when we reach him.

“Ha ha. We’ve heard that one before. And the umpteen jokes that start with, ‘A woman who was pregnant with triplets. . .’” I’m about to refer to the corny joke from earlier, but that would incriminate me in texting Not-Nolan.

“Did you get your tree?” Pierre asks.

I close my eyes because he just incriminated us as being in communication.

“Sure did. How about you?”

“You know I didn’t,” he says as if our private messages are public.

Not that I usually keep things from my sisters, but this is top secret. Never mindDo Not Open Until Christmas. This one is staying hidden in the back of my closet forever.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with a bite to my voice to keep up the charade.

He wiggles the bags in his hand. “Got some gifts to send to my family.”

I say. “Speaking of family, we’d better get back home to do, um, stuff.”

Anna’s brow crimps. “Stuff like?—?”

“Finding you a hot date for New Year’s Eve?” Ilsa trills.

My cheeks match the Dala Horses behind Pierre. “I was thinking more like spending quality time with our father.” I yank on their arms, eager to get out of here so neither one of us blurts anything stupid.

“I meant—” Ilsa starts.

“We should get some candied nuts for everyone and head back. Byeee,” I call to Pierre, hurrying my sisters away. With a backward glance, Pierre stands there, wearing an infuriatingly cute smirk.

When we get homeand decorate the tree, no sooner have we hung the last candy cane than Dadaszek has to head to the arena for an impromptu meeting.

My sisters and their husbands pull out the Game of Life, one of our favorites when we were kids. The problem is we only have four plastic cars, meaning only four can play.

A sinking feeling sends me to the couch by our glowing tree. I think about how Not-Nolan said he didn’t have one. Celebrating Christmas without a tree seems sad and lonely. I could do something about that.

At the sound of the wheel spinning to determine the first player’s career path, I sneak out the back door.

After a quick pit stop at a Christmas tree lot and the market, I pull out my phone and do something daring.

Me: Where do you live?

Knight in Shining Armor: Is this the start of a joke or . . .?

Me: I have something I need to drop off. It’ll take less than two minutes. If you’re not home, I can leave it outside your door.

Knight in Shining Armor: 563 Buellton Ave. Number 8B. I’ll be there.

Even though I’m merely chugging along in the minivan with over 150,000 miles on it, I feel like I’m scaling the first rise of a roller coaster. Nervous anticipation builds inside as I get on the highway that feeds the city proper. My stomach flutters as I take the exit. My throat tightens as I look for parking. When I get out of the car and gather my supplies, my breath comes in short supply.

The doorman of the high-rise greets me warmly as he holds open the door to a lobby outfitted with marble, mirrors, and classy Christmas decorations. This isn’t where I expected Pierre to live. Based on his reputation, I figured he called a frat house home, even though that makes no sense given his position on a prominent hockey team.

The elevator and the tinkling music do the opposite of calming the jumpiness inside. I glimpse myself in the mirror—one of many surrounding me.

I smooth my hair, quickly apply some Chapstick, and wish I’d worn something cuter than this practical going-to-a-Christmas tree farm outfit. Then again, he saw me in it earlierat the market. And it’s not like I’m going to stick around and take off my jacket.

Drawing a deep breath, when I reach 8B, I lift my hand to knock and the door flies open. Pierre wears a smirk and socks.

My stomach tumbles, my cheeks instantly darken, and our gazes lock.

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