Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pierre has dissolved all my first kiss fears. His lessons to remember to breathe, be present, and experience the moment don’t just apply to intimate moments but to life too.

All the same, my breath hitches when his mouth lands on mine. It catches somewhere in my chest, but that’s okay. I don’t need air. Just him. Us. Together. Like this.

A tingly little ripple flows through me when his fingers trail my neck and then brush along my arms before he rings my waist, holding me close.

I melt into him as my lips brush his cheek, pausing by his ear, and wander along his neck before I find my way back to his mouth. It was just a little detour. Being new to this, I want to explore all the places that make his smile widen.

All the while, Pierre’s fingers roam along my back before he laces his fingers through mine. It gives me certainty and an anchor that hints at what I want my future to look like—our hands joined together always.

When we return to the kiss, our mouths brush together slowly before it ramps up in intensity. I remember our start at the Fish Bowl with him declaring, She’s mine. My memories meander dreamily through a winding story we fabricated about our past relationship. Snow drifts border our way forward, threatening to cave in before the path straightens, leading me to this very moment.

This kiss becomes the sweetest and most tender we’ve shared. It lengthens and deepens in every direction, leaving me breathless in the best of ways.

In a haze, I realize this is that first kiss feeling. It’s both surreal and solid, with the brush of Pierre’s stubble against my cheek, the hammering of my heart in my chest, and the swoopy flutters rushing through me.

Eventually, we part, snuggling up in front of the hearth. He releases the softest of sighs at the same time one escapes from me. We’re quiet. No words need to be spoken because the kiss says it all.

Kissing Pierre has broken my brain in the best of ways. The glowing lights on the Christmas tree wear halos. The flames in the fireplace are a blur. His warmth and steadiness beside me is like a mountain I was brave enough to scale.

“Whoa,” I whisper.

Pierre and I melt together on the couch cushions.

He asks, “‘Whoa’ like I’d like seconds, please? Or ‘Whoa’ like that was a close call, and I’m going to back away slowly?”

Curling myself into his arms, I say, “Definitely the first one.”

I draw his lips to mine, helping myself to seconds, er, our third kiss of the night.

His nickname, “The Frenchman,” was not undersold.

However, soon after we part, knots wrap themselves tight in my stomach. I don’t want to land on Santa’s naughty list next year, so I can’t keep lying. Pierre had me at that first Merry Kiss Me moment. But I don’t know whether he feels the same. Then there’s the saga about how we made up an outrageous story about a past relationship that doesn’t exist. My brain revs up, overwhelming me with questions.

I ask, “What’s going to happen when the holidays are over and we go back to our real lives?”

“This is my real life.”

“My father is a central part of that, and if you haven’t noticed, he’s not here.”

“I’ve noticed.” Pierre pauses, gazing at the fire. “I’ll have to talk to him.”

“You’ve been in his office?—”

“Many times.”

“I can’t imagine that’ll go well.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Unless you’re saying that you don’t want to try to make it work.”

I recoil. “No, but what happens if we get caught? When I have to go back to Los Angeles? When puck bunnies swarm you like ants, lifting a hundred times their body weight and carry you off to their underground tunnels?”

“Are we talking about bunnies, ants, or beasts?”

I can’t bring myself to laugh.

Pierre squeezes my hand. I love his kisses, but holding hands is intimate in a different way. It feels especially meaningful. Since leaving home, it’s been me against the world, trying to survive in a competitive scholastic environment. While it was probably good to be away from home and gain some independence from my sisters, I’m built for strong connections. Pierre gives me that and so much more. His touch is assuring, soothing, and exciting.

But I’m afraid that’s not enough.

“I’ve always had a plan,” I whisper.

“Do you mean a rubric?”

I think about my lifelong schooling with everything spelled out. “I don’t know how not to rely on a schedule of classes, a course load, an environment where a textbook contains whatever I need to know. In other words, I live a life where there are no unknowns.”

Pierre Arsenault, with his history is a big, handsome, and extremely kissable unknown. Yet he sits here quietly, listening, letting me sort through the loud jumble in my mind.

Shaking my head, I say, “I won’t be just another notch on your hockey stick.”

“No, you won’t.”

He gathers me into his arms and kisses the top of my head.

He says, “No, you won’t because I want to be boyfriend material. I want men like your father to look at me and think Claus .”

This time, I do giggle. “Minus the big round belly.”

He squeezes me. “Of course, though, cookies for breakfast or lunch on Christmas isn’t the worst idea.”

“Part of our new tradition.”

“Kissing you that first time woke something up inside me. Reminded me of who I am and who I could be. Then, after finding out you’re my coach’s daughter, I told myself to avoid you. That proved a challenge. You’re irresistible.”

“I’ve never been that.”

“Other than Richard, I don’t know what kinds of guys you’ve come across, but they’re missing out.”

“I’ve come across a Ricky and a Richy. There won’t be anyone else with a variation of that name.” I want to add, Only you.

“Definitely not. The last thing I’d ever want to think about is someone else’s lips on yours.”

“It was an amazing first kiss. The second one, too. And the third.” Now, I’ve lost count.

Pierre taps his lips to mine and lingers there for a long moment until I remember to breathe. Until I feel his heavy arms wrapped around me, holding me secure, keeping me from floating away into the snowy night sky.

“I didn’t realize it, but for a long time, I’d been fighting a little war inside against who I was when I left home and who I’d let myself become—the story I bought about how I’m not the type to settle down.”

“And now?”

“You are who I’d been missing in my life.”

“But the battle isn’t over. There’s the issue of my big bad dad.”

“Maybe his teeth aren’t as sharp as we think.”

They’re probably sharper. But for now, I settle into Pierre’s arms as we lounge in front of the crackling fire as “Let it Snow!” trills in the background.

As I get dozy, Pierre kisses me softly on the forehead.

My thoughts drift. I have one last lucid moment where I finally understand the line in The Night Before Christmas about dancing sugarplums.

Pierre’s voice floats to me. “I’ve never felt this way before. You’re my dream girl. I love you, Cara.”

The words echo when I wake up the next morning, curled up on the couch, alone and snug under a chenille blanket knit with snowflakes.

The fire died, and the scene out the window is pure, bright white light. Fuzzy from sleep, I blink a few times, wondering if spending Christmas with Pierre and falling asleep in his arms was just a dream.

I turn on my phone and find a text.

Professor Frenchman: Good morning! I didn’t want to root through your father’s junk drawer, trying to find a piece of paper. If you’re reading this, I’m likely en route to Denver.

Me: Good luck with the game. I’ll be watching!

So it wasn’t a dream. With an irrepressible smile, I rush upstairs, dig into my clean laundry, and find Pierre’s jersey that I accidentally wore when I went to the Fish Bowl the night we first kissed.

After pulling it on, I snap a photo and then another of me blowing him a kiss. A little squeal escapes, and I do a happy dance as our conversations from last night filter back.

He was entirely respectful of my dating rules.

He wants to be boyfriend material.

He said he loves me.

I drop onto my bed, head spinning as the pre-sleep comment comes back to me. Drawing a deep breath, I ask myself what this means. I’m not sure, other than one simple fact. Pierre Arsenault has my heart. I love him, too.

I should be elated. But my overactive mind makes a list of unknowns.

There’s the matter of my father, Pierre’s coach. Even if a second miracle occurred and my father is okay with me dating one of his players—which he’d never go for—is it a conflict of interest or some kind of human resources violation?

Then there’s the issue of Pierre’s puck bunny past. It shouldn’t bother me, but I hate the idea of them swarming him. And what if he’s tempted by some gorgeous fan girl? I tried to dress up sexy like them and looked like a belf —a bunny elf who embarrassed herself. The memory makes me want to barf. Could I get over that?

Then, the fact that I live in another state presents a problem. College, too, because for the first time in my life, I dread going back.

I didn’t want Pierre to see the doodle I did of him during Kiss Class #3 in case he saw the others. The last week or so, while at the arena, instead of completing Professor Fujiyama’s assignment to sketch live-action, I doodled number seventy-four, who I was pretending not to like. But if I’m no longer in the graphic art program, what will I do?

Not knowing who I am other than a student bums me out. I remain on the couch for the better part of the day, watching the Home Alone movies.

Just like there’s Christmas Eve, there should be a name for the day after Christmas. I scroll through my mental thesaurus.

Christmas Later?

Christmas Beyond?

Christmas Morrow?

I vaguely recall something about Boxing Day in the UK.

But nothing bolsters my spirits. I feel myself slipping into the blues that sometimes happen to people post-merriment and pre-New Year’s. That reminds me of my father’s annual party that’s just for the team, which means Pierre will be there. I’m expected to go as well. But unlike the Team Christmas party, this one is a more intimate affair, usually held here at home or in a private room at a restaurant.

According to Helen, it’s going to be here. Either way, there’s no escape.

Pierre and I pretended to have known each other and broke up with me disinterested and with him pining. Can I fake not liking him now?

Before I can come up with a plan to deke this love story—a clever feint move in hockey—the Nebraska Knights vs the Denver Blizzard comes on.

The Blizzard start the game hot with two points scored against us, which makes me wonder if Beaumont Hammer is asleep at the wheel—it’s hard to tell under all the goalie gear. He could still be recovering from food poisoning. Hayden and Teddy both spend time in the penalty box—unfair calls if you ask me, but I’m not the one holding the whistle.

Redd offers a neat little assist, and Micah gives us a sizzling slapshot goal. Then the Blizzard fires off one more before they lose steam partway through the second period.

The rest of the game is breezy with the Knights building momentum, leaving our net empty while the Blizzard’s goalie has his hands full. Their defense is a pair of pylons which can sometimes be favorable, but not tonight. Ted and Pierre are on a tear, enforcers who are somehow everywhere all at once.

During the breaks between the periods, I doodle. Instead of drawing the action for my assignment, I capture Pierre and me last night in front of the tree by the fire. My thoughts drift. I don’t know what else to do with my life. I like to draw, but that’s more of a hobby. I fear making it a profession will rob me of the way it tends to settle my active mind with a singular focus that’s all mine—not me creating an image, writing an essay, or giving a presentation based on someone else’s information.

Back on the ice, our guys work together like a well-oiled machine thanks to plentiful assists, saves, and tying up the game. The front line sweeps up during overtime.

Even though the Knights win handily with a final five to three score, I fall into a funk. Don’t worry, I’m still bathing, unlike Richy, but I’m sincerely at a loss for what to do with myself. The situation between Pierre and me (and my dad) and my future .

I text my sisters, who’re living their best lives in the Caribbean.

Me: SOS

Anna Bannanna: I’m in the jacuzzi. Would you rather I call?

Kangaroo Ilsa: What? Where? When? I’ll be there.

Me: It’s not that urgent. I’m just wondering if twelve days is too short of a time to fall in love with someone.

Anna Bannanna: Then I’d have to ask if twelve years is too long.

Kangaroo Ilsa: With Jack, it was love at first sight.

I don’t hate their answers, but they don’t exactly help because I’m feeling slightly overwhelmed and not sure what to do because there’s no class plan for life. For love. However, Pierre’s kissing lessons were exceptional.

Anna Bannanna: When you kiss, you know.

Me: Is it really that simple?

Kangaroo Ilsa: When it comes to love, it’s a lot more straightforward than we try to make it out to be. Despite knowing Kangaroo Jack was the one, I resisted for a full year and wish I could get that time with him back. A lifetime won’t be enough for us.

Me: You guys are so sweet.

Anna Bannanna: Does this mean what I think it does?

Kangaroo Ilsa: I cannot wait to start making the roast video for your wedding!

Despite their support and encouragement, I have cookies for dinner and polish off the rest of the Christmas treats for dessert.

After Dadaszek returns from Denver, the guys don’t so much as have their feet on the ground when they immediately jump right back into practice. I drag myself to the arena to finish my assignment, but my heart isn’t in it.

No, it’s on ice with number seventy-four.

Forcing my pencil across the page to sketch the live-action when I’d much rather be drawing Pierre feels as difficult as resisting the last piece of Christmas fudge. I failed, by the way.

The guys gather around the player’s bench, likely for a word from my father, when my phone beeps. I changed Pierre’s contact information from Knight in Shining Armor to Professor Frenchman. Now, he’s Mr. Arsenault.

Mr. Arsenault: What are you doing?

Me: Doodling

Mr. Arsenault: You mean sketching. Making art.

Me: Trying to finish the storyboards for my professor.

Mr. Arsenault: So you’re at the arena. Me too. But you probably knew that. We just finished up.

Me: My father is cutting practice short?

Mr. Arsenault: He said he’s been a bit of a Grinch and told us to go home to be with our families and loved ones.

Me: He said that? Doesn’t sound like Dadaszek.

Mr. Arsenault: I think he misses his family. Also, he has a meeting with his assistant about New Year’s which means we could steal some time and sneak off before he heads home . . .

Me: I don’t think we should be seen together.

Mr. Arsenault: Meet me in the gear closet in ten minutes.

With zero chill, I pop out of my seat and then remind myself to act casual even though I’m craving the Frenchman. Maybe that’s what had me in a bad mood—I was experiencing withdrawals from his lips.

But it’s not only that. I also like his hands and the way he flirts with his eyes. How, under the initial bravado, is a soulful person who thinks about more than hockey and puck bunnies. A man who knows how to run a farm business, win a game, and make blueberry jam.

When I reach the hallway, my father’s voice booms from the other end. Before I can turn around and scurry back the way I came, he calls, “Badaszek!”

“Hey, Dadaszek. Good game, er, practice. The Colorado game, too. I watched it on television.” My tone refuses to modulate itself as it trips over timbres .

“Missed you being there but glad you kept safe from the storm.”

“Held down the fort at home.”

“What did I miss?”

“Oh, um, you know, the usual. Cider, carols, cookies . . .” I don’t add kisses .

He claps my shoulder. “I appreciate you keeping your mother’s traditions alive.”

Guilt slaps me on the ears because Pierre and I started some of our own. I should come clean, and tell him the truth, but I’d hate to see the Knights lose their defenseman and for my father to go to jail on Christmas Morrow-Morrow or whatever today is called.

“I have a meeting and some calls, but I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” His phone beeps and he hurries down the hall, flagging down Helen.

Realizing I was holding my breath, I exhale and slouch against the wall when the nearest door opens, a large hand grabs my wrist, and tugs me inside.

A little yelp escapes at the same time a thrill rushes across my skin when I meet Pierre’s eyes. For so long, I was afraid of what would happen if I lingered too long on them. Now I know and I want more of it.

Merry Kiss Me kisses, kisses under the mistletoe, Christmas kisses, and kisses all year long.

But that’s not all. I want to be in a better mood for our reunion, but I can’t push past the clutter in my head because I don’t know what shape my future, no less ours, could take.

“Dadaszek wants dinner and I want you and—” I fret, pressing my hands to my face.

Pierre peels them away, kissing my graphite-stained fingers.

“I’m tired of being a student but don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go back to Los Angeles and school. Where else would I go?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Home.

Like when I confessed about being told my drawings were just doodles and feared I was wasting my intelligence, which formed a kind of pressure I still live under, Pierre somehow knows just what I need. Pulling me into a snug hug, I let a few tears fall and melt into his strong frame. Nothing and no one, not even Ken Laangbroek, the goon for the Blizzard, can knock him down.

“Am I having a quarter-life crisis?” I ask.

“That would be at twenty-five years old. I thought you were twenty-six.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.” My voice is a whisper.

Pierre’s is solid. “I like who you are.”

Leaning back and meeting his eyes, I say, “On top of everything, my sisters keep sending me photos and contact information for guys, still trying to set me up with someone. However, I think they’re just trying to smoke me out and get me to come clean about us. Our little secret.”

He nods. “No one is allowed to date the coach’s daughter. What if I retire?”

“What? No! You’re at the top of your career.”

“Nothing like quitting a winner.”

“Just to date some chick?”

“Not some chick. Not a puck bunny. Not even Santa’s elf. A gorgeous, intelligent, funny, and thoughtful smoke show.” His lips quirk.

I lift my eyebrows. “Clearly, you don’t know me. I’m not a?—”

He plants his forefinger over my mouth. “I think part of the problem is you’re trying to be the person others expect you to be. Who you think you should be. I’m a bit familiar with that.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Nat, the nutritionist, would say to go organic. By that, I mean just let things unfold naturally. If you want to draw, draw. If you want to help me save the Christmas Market by taking on a role with the Cobbiton CAC, do that. If you think you could be your dad’s new assistant, he’s hiring.”

None of that means being a student anymore and all of it sends a little flickery flare of interest through me along with a grip of trepidation.

“What about Helen?”

“She said she should’ve retired five years ago. She wants to spend time with her grandkids—” He goes on to describe them in detail per Helen’s frequent brag book shares. “I’ve been in Badaszek’s office a lot lately.”

“My dad does have a hard time letting go.”

“Could be a control thing.”

“Yeah. I get that. But what about a job? A career?” Then, an idea pings in my mind. “I’m very organized. I know a lot about the off-ice side of the Knights operation.”

“You’d be great at the job.”

“I love the Christmas Market and would hate to see it end.”

“You could even set up a stall with some drawings.” Pierre winks.

“It’s something to think about,” I say with a sigh.

“Listen, I don’t know who I am anymore either. But I am certain of one thing. I want to be with you, amour . You could hang up a shingle in town. Save the Christmas Market. Work for the Knights and travel with us. Be my wife.”

I blink a few times. “What?

Our gazes lock as both our eyes widen.

“That’s life,” Pierre stutters .

“That’s not what you said.”

“Words,” he blurts.

“You said a specific word.”

Drawing a deep breath, a smile blooms on his lips. “You’re right. I said what I said. Be my wife.”

“Just like that? We’re in a gear closet. No fancy proposal?” I ask, barely processing what’s happening.

“Do you want one of those?”

I tell him how Kangaroo Jack proposed to Ilsa in Vienna and Calvin asked Anna to marry him at the peak of their favorite hiking trail.

“Romantic. I could propose on the ice after we win the game for the world to know. Never mind. I can’t copy Hayden.”

“It doesn’t need to be in front of the world, but?—”

“But would you say yes?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

His flirty eyes sparkle. “Really?”

“Really. I love you, Number Seventy-four.”

“I love you too. Seems like our game of fake-it turned into a make-out. I mean make-it.” And at that, his lips land on mine.

I’ve lost count, but I think this is my favorite kiss yet. Or the one yesterday, then again, it could be the kiss we share tomorrow or next year. Maybe in ten.

Pausing, I say, “All I know is you are my first and forever kiss.”

He smirks. “And you are definitely mine. All mine.”

I admit, I love the sound of that . . . and Pierre, too.