Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I have a kiss hangover. Is that normal for the first time?

I also have to admit I haven’t entirely been in my right mind this morning, but Pierre Arsenault’s comment sobers me up.

Either he had his prefrontal cortex replaced with a hockey puck or he’s working an angle. But why me? Why this?

First, he called me his girlfriend when we were at the Fish Bowl. Now, it sounds like he claims I’m his unrequited love. I’ve never had requited love, no less the unrequited kind.

Oh, and let’s not forget that he kissed me like it alone would single-handedly save the world. Or rescue me from Chard. Not that I was in too much distress. I totally could’ve handled the drunk loser—by running out the back door.

But the kiss, my official first kiss, has me in the best kind of distress because I want to do it again . . . with him. Even though that breaks all my rules since he’s a hockey player. Another point against the notion is that he’s on my dad’s team. Kissing Pierre is probably also against federal law . . . because it was so good.

Casting me a flirty gaze, he says, “ Amour , I thought we were cool since you were wearing my jersey last night.”

I start to explain the leak in the sunroof when I feel like I’ve been splashed by water a second time. Does he want me to pretend to be his girlfriend? If so, why?

“We need to get you a new car,” he says simply.

Blinking a few times, I process this information. At a crossroads, I can come clean or muster some of Anna’s way with words and Ilsa’s independence.

Let’s just say I skip the paved streets altogether and go offroad when I say, “I’m not looking for a sugar daddy.”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “I want to make sure you’re safe whether you’re driving in bad weather here or in LA traffic.”

My father ping-pongs his attention between us.

Mine is on the Frenchman and his stylish stubble and tousled hair instead of the long hair like other guys on the team. The way his massive hands dwarfs the Christmas doughnut. How his lips are so nicely proportioned.

I fan myself with a folder from my father’s desk.

He says, “ Amour , we can make this work. I believe in us.”

How am I letting him get away with this? To answer that, I’d need to rewind to the kiss last night. Considering the present company, that’s a terrible idea. Now, I need an industrial-sized fan.

Dadaszek gets up from his chair and paces in front of the broad window overlooking the arena. This is never a good sign. Gazing up at the ceiling, he’s wishing Mom were still around to help him deal with this. That means he’s at the end of his tether.

I was too young to remember my father during his hockey glory days, but I’ve heard stories. They called him by a name that sounds sort of like our last name but contains a word not used in polite company unless referring to a donkey.

Let’s just say that even now, Tom Badaszek is an imposing man.

Of course, my allegiance belongs to him, but whether my knight in an ugly Christmas sweater has real feelings for me or not, he did help me out of an uncomfortable situation at the Fish Bowl.

And I’ll never be able to wipe that kiss from my memory.

“Dadaszek, I’m sorry about the social media storm after last night. It’s true, um?—”

“What social media storm?” the Frenchman asks.

Yes, THE Frenchman.

I only know about the fandom fiasco because my sisters woke me at zero dark thirty, preparing to ship me out of the country in the cover of darkness to save me from Dadaszek. They received repeated and increasingly frantic social media alerts from friends and colleagues asking if one of them had kissed Pierre Arsenault, known in certain circles merely as “The Frenchman,” and not because he’s French and a defenseman. No, it has everything to do with his reputation for locking lips with women. Thankfully, when it came to their attention that I didn’t tell them the entire tale of what transpired at the Fish Bowl, they didn’t throw me to the Big Bad Dadaszek wolf down the hall, but they did want answers . . . in exacting detail.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Um, Pierre and I met when the team was last in Los Angeles playing the Lions.”

“I thought you had to study?” Turns out my dad has questions, too.

Shifting uncomfortably, I answer, “I did . . . brought my work with me.”

“Why weren’t you in the VIP box?”

My tone rises a few octaves. “You know me, never want to make a fuss. No special treatment. And, uh, I figured I wouldn’t be able to write my essay and make conversation with Helen and whoever else was in the box.”

It’s official. I’ll be getting a dump truck full of coal in my stocking this year.

Pierre nods slowly. “That’s right. We met, and I fell head over, um, skates.”

If this weren’t such an intense moment, I’d giggle at the expression. “But I can’t be in a relationship with my studies.”

“ Amour , I told you we can figure out a way to make it work,” Pierre says, hamming it up, which doesn’t help, given the stone-cold killer hockey mask my father wears right now.

The truth is, Tommy Badaszek is a big ’ole teddy bear with us girls, but we’re probably the only three people on the planet who’ve seen that side of him.

Thanks to my sisters, I learned a lot about Pierre Arsenault in the early dawn hours. The guy is a great hockey defenseman but is on thin ice, and Dadaszek has no problem letting it crack and watching players fall through. Or, more accurately, pushing them if they don’t meet his expectations.

Turning to Pierre, I intend to fix this and save his career and my father’s respect lest he find out I kissed a perfect stranger in public. Remember, I’m the baby, the innocent one.

Turning to number seventy-four, I say, “I told you that’s not happening. I figured you understood since I saw you all over social media in the last month with, well, I doubt you even remember their names.”

His shoulders sag. “I can’t control what the puck bunnies do.”

“And that’s just it. You’re not ready to be in a relationship, and neither am I. How can I be your girlfriend if you have loads of women hanging all over you like fleas? ”

He shudders and then rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “Do bunnies have fleas?”

“How would I know?”

“I told you, they don’t mean anything.”

“Then find an alternative form of entertainment. Don’t go to the Fish Bowl or wherever else you lurk to get attention.”

Pierre’s expression flashes with a mixture of relief and amusement, but he quickly conceals it. “When I heard you were going to be there last night, I thought maybe you’d give me another chance.”

He’s the master of the flirtatiously arched eyebrow, and it slices right through my defenses.

A little flutter rises inside and sends color to my cheeks. I have the sudden urge to move closer. Maybe it’s not entirely his fault women flock to him. The real question is, how can they not? I tell myself to resist his pull.

“I’m trying to move on, Pierre. Don’t you understand?” Yes, I’ll accept that golden statue for my outstanding performance. Actually, we make a pretty good team because it looks like Dadaszek is buying the story.

“ Amour , our feelings for each other are real. You know that. I know that. How can we let such a good thing go?”

Remembering my father is looming over us with thinly veiled rage, I say, “I’m trying to get over you?—”

Pierre interrupts, “I never will. You’re so beautiful, smart, funny . . . I know I don’t deserve you, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” The depths in his tone match his eyes which cling to me.

I slide my head from side to side dramatically, caught up in this fake soap opera. “Pierre, I have to finish school without any distractions. And given how distracted you get, ahem, by other women, I’m afraid we’re not right for each other.”

Dad sits back down and lifts his chin. “That’s right. Badaszek is going to be a lawyer, and you’re going to need one if you don’t get the message.”

Pierre stiffens. “My apologies, sir. I hear it loud and clear.” He gazes at me with a plea in his eyes. Speaking slowly, he says, “Badaszek, I mean, amour , I’m sorry. You broke my heart, and I was trying to make you jealous.”

I realize Pierre doesn’t even know my first name and is following Dad’s lead since he calls everyone by their last names—until recently, I was Badaszek Three, the baby. Anna was Badaszek One until she took the last name Bannanna, and Ilsa was Badaszek Two until she married Kangaroo Jack and became McMann.

Pierre really must not have seen the photos and videos of us kissing splashed all over the internet, otherwise, he’d be on a one-way ticket back to Canada. I store away this information for later because if his reputation is as well-earned as I’ve heard, wouldn’t he be eating likes and comments for breakfast to get an early morning hit of fan affection?

Pierre studies his hands, then peers up at me, gaze imploring. “I’m going to make a promise to both of you. I’ll back off and focus only on the game.”

My father nods approvingly.

A sudden heaviness drops through me.

Drawing a deep breath, Pierre turns to me and adds, “Along with wearing this ugly Christmas sweater for the remainder of the month. Just so you know how much you mean to me, you won’t catch me with any other women, no puck bunnies or female fans. You have my word.”

I have a pretty good handle on my state of mind, but the room shifts slightly as Pierre gazes into my eyes. The silver flecks shine like a special kind of northern sun on this man.

Cara, resist the pull of this blue-eyed rascal!

I drop my gaze to his chiseled jaw .

Cara, do not think about how your hand brushed against it or when he cupped yours.

His lips quirk, and I lock on them, recalling every sensation of them pressed against mine last night.

Cara, nothing about the kiss was real. Don’t trick yourself into thinking otherwise.

But how could something that perfect set me on fire?

He called me his girlfriend. Rescued me from Richard. Pierre and I kissed. Now, he’s making a solemn vow to be loyal to me? I almost buy what he’s selling. But I gathered enough about the Frenchman to know that he’s the biggest flirt on the ice. Not boyfriend material. I have to resist his charm. To remember that all hockey players belong in the penalty box.

I nod slowly in response, too confused to trust myself to speak.

Pierre has a male model look about him. I tell myself that if he couldn’t play hockey, he’d get along just fine in the world and has a cocky attitude like he knows it.

Time to flip the tables. Getting to my feet, I say, “I’ve heard this all before, Pierre. My life is in Los Angeles. Yours is here. We can’t be together. But I hope you keep your word about not dating anyone during the holidays. Maybe a break will help you realize what’s important and you’ll finally find someone special.”

His expression craters. Forget being a male model, the guy could get an acting career. Heck, me too. We could be a two-person performance team, taking to the stage across the country.

Giving my head a little shake, I say, “Dadaszek, sorry about all this. It won’t happen again.” I hurriedly exit the office.

However, one thought sticks in my mind like hot glue on a foam and felt snowman.

I do want to kiss Pierre again. A lot .

When I get to the minivan, my phone beeps with a message.

Anna Bannanna: Send proof of life. Dadaszek was in a mood this morning. Not even “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” got him to rock around the Christmas tree.

Me: We haven’t put up the tree yet. Anyway, the doughnuts were a hit and . . .

I’m about to tell her about how Pierre and I pretended to have a past, but this seems like something best explained in person. My stomach whorls and I bite my lip. Or not.

A little thrill works through me at the idea of having a clandestine relationship with Pierre. Like a moving picture, I imagine our rendezvous in Los Angeles. No one knows it’s fake. Not even my sisters. This means I could use the on-and-off relationship as cover to get them to stop playing Cupid One and Cupid Two.

It’s all a total lie but way more exciting than studying UX/UI design principles on a Friday night.

I finish typing the message, telling Anna that I’m on my way home. I’d saved a few doughnuts to bring to my sisters and their spouses. Instead, I take a bite of each one. Partly because the sweet dough provides a much-needed stress release and because it’s their fault I’m in this situation after setting me up with Chard.

No doughnuts for them!

Back on Golden Bantam Lane, the house smells like cinnamon and citrus from mulling spices, making me want to do Christmas stuff rather than give Anna and Ilsa all the details. It doesn’t help that Pierre had a slight cinnamon-spicy scent. Whether I’m in a sugar-induced psychosis from the doughnuts or riding the high of my first kiss, I stick with the story and spew everything that Pierre and I told Dadaszek.

They lap up the lies. I take a sip of cider, hoping it’ll burn away the guilt of keeping up this charade.

Anna’s eyes are as big as the jumbo oatmeal cookies on the counter. “So, you and Pierre Arsenault? You minx!”

“What’s a minx?” I ask.

“It’s in the otter and ferret family,” Anna adds a few other facts about Mustelidae.

Ilsa claws the air and makes a Rrarr sound.

“That’s not what I was going for.”

She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “That seems to be what Pierre is looking for.”

I tell them about the promise he made in Dad’s office. “But I don’t buy it. Things are over between us.” And I’d like to put this entire fake affair behind me.

Anna says. “And that’s why we need to find you a guy.”

I shake my head slowly and inwardly groan because my plan instantly backfired. The whole point of continuing the fake relationship charade was to get them off my back. My phone beeps with a message.

“Is that Nolan?” Ilsa asks, reaching for my device.

Holding it away from her, I say, “Given my recent, um, relationship hiccup, we decided to be text pals.”

Ilsa snorts a laugh through her nose. “That’s the dorkiest thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe you’re meant for each other.”

Anna shakes her head. “Perhaps that’s for the best since you and Pierre are today’s ‘it’ couple.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about things with Pierre. But I’m off the market. No more playing Cupid and her evil twin.” I poke each of them in the shoulder and inwardly give myself one, too for the big fat fibs.

I’m terrified to open my phone and see photos of Pierre and me under the Merry Kiss Me sign on social media. But it was a great first kiss and we made a great team today. However, I cannot imagine what my father said to him after I left the office.

Sure enough, the text is from Nolan. While Ilsa and Anna return to help the guys fetch the Christmas decorations from the attic, I drop onto the stool at the center island.

Knight in Shining Armor: The good times just keep on rolling. I had the wackiest morning. Almost lost my job. Thankfully, I got a second chance. I hope your day is better than mine so far!

Me: Yikes! That would not be a very nice Christmas gift. I’m glad everything worked out. Tonight, we’re decorating the house and tomorrow, we get our tree unless things get postponed. Everyone is so busy this year. But it’s always fun. Is your tree up yet?

Knight in Shining Armor: I haven’t had one of those in years.

Me: Not even a mini tree?

Knight in Shining Armor: Not so much as a twig.

Me: You should definitely do something about that.

At first, it felt like I was texting a stranger. Even in this short amount of time, it feels like we’re becoming friends, and I appreciate that. If I didn’t live in Los Angeles, I’d consider giving him a chance because I think I’d like a guy like Nolan—someone sweet, with a sense of humor, and who doesn’t go around kissing everything that moves. Ahem, Pierre .

That said, I did kiss him back. I slap my hand over my mouth as last night fully catches up with me. I kissed a stranger. I’ve certainly spiced things up in the twenty-four hours that I’ve been home. Never saw this much activity in Cobbiton until now.

He and I exchange a few more messages. I can’t help but think being text pals is for the best. If Nolan almost lost his job as the Zamboni driver, that must mean Dad is on a tear. I don’t want to see any heads roll. Pierre’s rescue PDA landed him in hot water, but I think we turned down the heat . . . or not because I cannot stop thinking about our kiss and wouldn't object to a second one.

Dare I say Pierre was a pro? Could have something to do with him being French Canadian. I could use a tutorial or two. He’d make a great tutor. It could be a private lesson.

An idea . . . of a kissing class takes root.

Like California poppies, my bad decisions have been self-propagating.

That’s it. My pride and my father’s Yeti Ice Monster warnings aside, I’m tracking down Pierre and he’s going to teach me to flirt and kiss. That shouldn’t be hard since I have to go to the arena to sketch for Professor Fujiyama’s assignment . . . and now an important study of my own.