Page 40 of The Kiss Class

“They say little girls are made of sugar and spice and boys are made of snakes and snails. But my sisters and I were never averse to playing in the dirt.”

“I have a sister and brother but cannot imagine us being triplets.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know any different, but if one of your siblings ever put a frog on your face while you were sleeping orcoated a sponge in chocolate frosting and tricked you into taking a bite, then it’s probably the same.”

I laugh. “Hugo had a habit of hiding around the barns and jumping out, scaring the living daylights out of us. He’d also do things like mess with the toothpaste tube and repeatedly brought a llama to school with a sign around its neck designating it as mine. Our small town school had a strict rule about no livestock on the grounds. So yeah, the same.”

We talk about our siblings a little more, and Cara mentions that her sisters and their husbands are heading to the Caribbean on Christmas day.

“Does that mean you’ll be staying home alone for Christmas?” I’m about to mention she should watch the movie and reenact it and set traps for everyone when they get back when I recall Badaszek saying he got their tickets.

“I’ll be in Colorado for the game,” she says.

With me . . .

I raise an eyebrow, curious if we’ll bring our Kiss Class on the road.

Cara clears her throat and lifts a shopping bag. “I also brought lights, decorations, candy canes, and even a star for the top of the tree.”

“You thought of everything.”

“I forgot the cookies. My sisters and I baked tons, but I accidentally left them on the counter.”

I press the side of my pointer finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t tell Nat, but I picked up some from the market.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Which one?”

Her cheeks turn pink. “I should go.”

“You really should stay. Help me destroy the evidence.” I give the box of cookies from the bakery stall a jiggle.

The condo is open concept with an L-shaped islanddividing the dining area from the living space. I slip behind it and push up my sleeves, then pull out some glasses for the eggnog. Adding some extra nutmeg as my dad does, I take a sip to be sure it’s right and set it out along with the cookies, but Cara hasn’t moved from where I’d set her down.

Summoning my mother’s example of hospitality, I say, “Please, make yourself at home.”

“I only meant to swing by. You probably have plans.”

“To decorate this tree with you.”

“Everyone will probably wonder where I am.” She gestures over her shoulder toward the door.

“At least warm up for a minute. The wind is wicked tonight.”

Still wearing her coat, she gazes at the buttons as if debating whether to take it off. They’re big and black, reminding me of Frosty the Snowman. I flip on my phone and tap on the first Christmas playlist that comes up on my music app.

“The Christmas Song,” by Nat King Cole, trills through the speakers.

When Cara still hasn’t thawed out, once more, I cross the room. This time, I stand toe to toe with her. I slide her honey-brown hair over her shoulders and begin unbuttoning her coat.

She gazes up at me with those big hazel eyes, part surprised and part I’m not sure. I don’t want to fool myself into thinking I see longing there. She wants me to teach her to kiss for purely practical purposes. We have a deal, and maybe it’s not because the first kiss under the Merry Kiss Me sign was a barn burner.

She moves to get the last button, but I don’t withdraw my hands and ours brush. The heady rush rolls through me and I take a deep breath.

Finally accepting my invitation to stay, Cara takes off her coat. I hang it on the hook by the door next to mine. It’s small, kind of like the tree in the vast living area. It’s odd howseemingly diminutive things, like Cara and her coat, can somehow take up a lot of space . . . in my mind, in my home, in my . . .

I slap my hand against my chest. Whoa. Where was that thought going? There must be something in that eggnog. Time to pull on the reins. This horse-drawn sleigh has gone off track.

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