Page 45 of The Kiss Class

“Thank you for bringing a bit of Christmas to me. Where should we meet next time?”

“I’ll text you.” At that, she rushes off, leaving me awash in her baby powder scent and with a nearly unquenchable sense of longing.

When I go into the kitchen to turn off the lights, I find an Elf on the Shelf holding a miniature candy cane hockey stick.

There is no doubt. I’ve fallen for my fake girlfriend, my coach’s daughter . . . and I want nothing more than to truly make Cara mine.

CHAPTER NINE

“Cara,should I bring this plaid bathing suit that has holiday vibes or fully embrace the tropics and go with this teal one?” A figure stands opposite me, holding up something. I’m not sleeping nor am I looking in a mirror.

I blink a few times as Ilsa’s question echoes in my mind.

“She hasn’t touched her coffee,” Anna says, a foggy voice beyond my field of vision.

“I think you were right,” Ilsa says.

“Ha! Ten points for Team Anna.” Slippers slap the floor as if she’s doing a victory bounce as the conversation about Team Eggnog and Team White Lights from last night filters back.

Forget the cherry cola. I’m addicted to Pierre.

“Where’d you vanish to while I was whooping Anna’s butt at Life?” Ilsa asks, referring to the board game.

Giving my head a little shake, I take a sip of coffee. “Took a drive. Um, looked at lights.” It’s not a lie if I’m omitting details, is it? I can’t live much longer under the weight of all this deception—with the story I told Dadaszek and keeping thingsfrom these two. Knowing my sisters, they’ll get me to crack and confess.

“I vote to bring both. They’re small and will fit in your luggage. The big question is, what’s everyone wearing to the party tonight?” Anna asks.

Like suddenly getting splashed, I wake up. I blink a few times as water drips off my eyelashes.

Ilsa wears a guilty smile. “Oopsie. Got carried away with the sink sprayer hose.”

“There she is, our ray of scholarly sunshine,” Anna says, greeting me now that I’ve come out of my stupor.

“I forgot all about the team Christmas party,” I utter.

“Hmm. Could that be because you’re stressing over whether you got anAon your end-of-term assignment?” Ilsa asks.

“No, she was hoping for an A+,” Anna chirps.

They couldn’t know about the kiss class. Unless triplet telepathy is real and I didn’t get that gene either. There’s no way that they heard Pierre give me a passing grade last night.

“Do I talk in my sleep?” I ask.

Ilsa frowns. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t think so unless it’s a new habit,” Anna says.

There have been several new developments as of late—namely that the line blurs between what’s real and fake with Pierre and me. I fear I’m crossing a line, especially because he’s on my father’s team. Plus, there’s the pesky Frenchman’s reputation, which puts me on guard.

As my sisters discuss their outfits for tonight, my thoughts drift to last night. To how everything about Pierre is manly yet stylish like he stepped out of a men’s magazine. Hard to believe he grew up on a farm when compared to some of the guys around here.

I cautioned myself to be careful around him, given hischarm, but he seemed candid last night, especially when he shared about his sheltered life and how becoming a popular hockey player kind of went to his head.

Even though we kept our palms half an inch apart during my lessons, they brushed when he took off my coat, sending a shiver through me. It comes again now.

Anna asks, “Are you cold? Unless Dad runs the wood stove or the fireplace, he keeps this place like an ice box.”

My cheeks turn pink as if I was caught red-handed thinking about Pierre’s hands. They’re calloused, strong, and rough—at odds with the rest of his marble statue-sculpted self. Whatever they have in the water on his farm grew him up good. Yes, I’m admiring him like every other puck bunny.

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