Page 64 of Cross Check Christmas
"She's being modest, but this wouldn't have come together without her vision," he says smoothly. "I just followed her lead."
I shoot him a questioning look, but he just winks at me. More faculty members drift over, showering us with compliments about our apparent collaborative effort. Each time I try to set the record straight, Hendrix finds some way to credit me for his work.
As the last notes of Pentatonix fade away, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" begins playing. Hendrix turns to me, extending his hand with an exaggerated bow.
"May I have this dance, Miss McCallister?"
"We're supposed to be chaperoning, not participating," I protest weakly, but my heart's already racing.
"One dance won't corrupt the youth of America."
Maybe it's the twinkling lights, or the way his eyes sparkle with mischief, but my resistance crumbles as Hendrix's warm hand finds mine, pulling me onto the dance floor.
He pulls me close, his hand warm against my back, and suddenly I'm seventeen again, standing in this very gym in my thrift store dress, shocked that Hendrix Ellis had asked me to dance.
Back then, he'd smelled like Axe body spray and teenage dreams.
I'd been so nervous, my hands trembling as they rested on his shoulders. Just like now. The same butterflies, the same racing heart. The way he'd looked at me then, like I was the only girl inthe room. The softness of his lips when he'd kissed me, before I convinced myself it was all a joke and ran away.
Now here we are, seven years later, and he's looking at me with that same intensity.
His hand is steady on my back, and when he spins me, my midnight blue dress swirls around my legs. The Christmas lights cast soft shadows across his face, and I catch myself studying the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
"You're thinking about that night," he murmurs, and it's not a question.
"You stepped on my toes," I remind him, deflecting.
"And then I kissed you."
My breath catches. "And then I ran away."
His hungry gaze dips to my lips. “Would you run away if I kissed you now?”
"I'm afraid I'd have to give you detention."
He wags his brows, pressing his fingers harder into my back. "Promise?"
The moment ends too soon as the slow song fades away. Suddenly, the romantic moment shatters as the chorus of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” fills the gymnasium: "Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…”
My face flames as I spot David Huxley and several other hockey players clustered by the DJ booth, making exaggerated kissing faces in our direction. Even Maurice Belgagio, who usually can't make eye contact with me during English class, is waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
"How do these kids even know this old song?" I groan, mortified. The students' whoops and hollers echo across the dance floor as more of them notice us.
Hendrix laughs, pressing his forehead against mine. His breath tickles my cheek as he asks, "Wanna get out of here?"
I should say no. I'm a responsible teacher. I have chaperoning duties. But the way the kids are pointing and giggling makes me feel like I'm back in high school myself, being teased about my crush on the popular hockey player.
"Yes," I whisper, grabbing his hand.
We slip out the side door into the darkened hallway. The music becomes muffled, though I can still hear Eddie Van Halen's guitar riffs through the walls. The fluorescent lights are dimmed for the evening, casting long shadows across the floor. Our footsteps echo against the lockers as we hurry down the corridor, feeling deliciously rebellious.
"I can't believe they played that song," I say, though I'm fighting back laughter now that we're away from prying eyes. "Those little monsters planned it."
“Come on,” he says, leading me down the dark hallway.
My heels click against the linoleum floor. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see." He pushes open the double doors to the ice rink. The overhead lights are dimmed, but the ice gleams with a magical quality, like moonlight on fresh snow.
