Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I can’t believe you got me a Christmas tree. It’s kind of adorable,” I say, touched by Cara’s thoughtful gesture.

“It’s not a big deal. Even though we won’t really be home for Christmas, my sisters insisted we have one, so I figured Not-Nolan should have one too.”

“Not Nolan?”

“I haven’t updated your contact in my phone from Knight in Shining Armor, aka the Zamboni driver, aka Nolan, aka not you.”

“What will my new contact name be?” I ask with a grin.

“Professor Frenchman,” she says, eyes shining.

“Hmm. Should I be flattered or offended?” I’m not sure what to make of the moniker.

“Neither. You’re my Kiss Class teacher and you’re French Canadian. Maybe it’ll be a fresh start.”

I let out a breath because I could use one of those. “Let’s see, where should we put this little guy?” I pick up the tree which is about as tall as a meter stick .

“We put ours in front of the window, but this many floors up, I doubt anyone will be able to see it.”

All the same, I move a table in front of the broad windows overlooking the city and place the tree on top, stand and all. “Perfect.”

Only, Cara remains in the doorway, and that is not perfect . . . and I am not Nolan. I’d rather he deal with the repercussions of kissing the coach’s daughter, but I hate the idea of anyone’s lips on hers even more. Well, except mine.

Crossing the room in several long strides, I pick Cara up just like I did the tree, plant her on the floor inside the door, and then close it.

She yelps and then giggles slightly as if she can’t help it.

“It wouldn’t be right for you to come all this way, bring me a tree, and not help decorate it.”

“I don’t want to impose,” she demurs.

Ignoring that because there’s no one I want here more, I ask, “Can I get you something to drink? I have eggnog.” I picked it up because I miss my family. We’ve only spent the holidays apart a total of three times. While it’s not a huge deal, it’s a little lonely up here on the eighth floor all by myself.

Cara’s teeth sink into her lip. “I was going to pick some up but wasn’t sure if you were on Team Eggnog or Team Ew Gag. Some argue that it’s like drinking a glass full of goo.”

I chuckle. “You just sketched a disturbing picture.”

“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 or coated 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 island dividing 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 how seemingly 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.

With hesitant steps, Cara makes her way to the counter and takes a sip of the eggnog. Not going to lie, I’m watching her lips. When a little of the holiday drink remains on her cupid’s bow, I dab it with my thumb.

A gentle tremor ripples through her. Her teeth nibble her lip and then her eyes search mine briefly before she looks away, cheeks blazing.

My vision fixes on the small gap between us as moments like this start to stack up. Moments that could become more.

The Christmas playlist changes abruptly from a low croon to a silly song sung in a squeaky voice about wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas.

I bring the cookies over to the coffee table along with the bag of decorations. “Let’s see what you brought.”

Cara says, “I was going to get both multi-colored lights and white, but they were out of the colorful ones.”

“I’m Team White Lights on the tree.”

“I’d have pegged you for a colorful lights guy. Why choose, right? It’s like a variety pack.”

It doesn’t take a graduate degree to get the subtext. She’s taking a jab at my reputation with women.

“Why not choose?” My gaze lingers on Cara for a long moment.

Stringing the lights is a one-person job, considering the size of the tree, but I have Cara hold one end of the light strand while I find the nearest plug. They glow, illuminating her soft features. My pulse thumps .

While hanging the lights, I say, “I’ve never invited anyone except for Micah and Ted up here. They’d be impressed.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“That they’d be impressed or?—?”

She plants her hand on her hip. “You expect me to believe you’ve never had a woman up here?”

I don’t mention Cecilia breaking in because I don’t want to be reminded of the drama. “Not willingly and not even my mother. She doesn’t like flying, and it’s a long trip from Quebec.”

Cara rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Right. You do realize Santa’s making a list and checking it twice. Lying will probably get you in the naughty column.”

“We’re both guilty of fibbing.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“But I was telling the truth about not, uh, having guests up here.”

“I’ve seen you on social media with dozens of different women.”

I smirk. “You’ve been checking me out online, huh?”

She shifts from foot to foot.

My eyebrow arches.

Her arms fold in front of her chest. “Maybe. So what?”

I want to admit how that makes me feel, but first I have another truth to tell and a myth to dispel.

Dropping onto the couch, I pick up a cookie but don’t take a bite. “Cara, I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. My accent, speaking French and English, and the way I look weren’t anything special. I was just another kid who played hockey.”

“My dad saw something special in you. Coming from him, that’s high praise.”

“Yes, but I was pretty sheltered. My father showed me the ropes for how to run the farm if the whole hockey dream didn’t work out. That was the backup plan. I was a later draft to the NHL. But everything changed after that.”

She leans in slightly as if genuinely curious.

“Have you ever heard about parents who don’t let their kids eat junk food or drink soda, then they go on to binge the stuff when they’re on their own?”

She points to herself. “Freshman year of college, I developed a cherry cola addiction. I was up to a case a day. When I was jonesing, I’d get a jumbo size from the sketchy gas station near campus.”

I laugh inwardly, imagining tiny Cara chugging a giant soda. “Exactly. That was me. When I got here, suddenly I was popular, wanted, and got a lot of attention—not just for hockey, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“You mean attention from women.”

It’s as if turbid water churns around me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone. I clutch the cookie like a life-ring preserver. “Like soda, it’s addicting. Most of what you see is just for social media. I get a hit, a thrill when I see all those likes and comments.”

“You are a chick magnet.”

My eyebrow arches.

“Sorry. That was Ilsa.”

I tilt my head. “Is that a triplet thing?”

“No, a sisters-gossiping-about-you thing. She said that you’re a chick magnet.”

I chuckle. “Thank you for your candor.”

“It was accidental.”

Like an itch that must be scratched, my mind won’t let me forget what I was going to say. “Anyway, at first, it was cool to receive so much attention. Not going to lie about that. But now, it’s just . . . ”

“No matter how many cans of soda I drank, it just didn’t satisfy after a while?—”

“Exactly. It makes me feel empty now, hollow.” I peer up at Cara. “I want something meaningful.”

“Maybe my sisters can help you find the perfect match. They’re good at nosing into people’s business.”

I laugh, but my heart isn’t in it. That’s not what I want. Not who I want. The problem is, I can’t have Cara. She’s completely off-limits.

“I’m not sure I trust their character judgment. Richard was playing a game of ‘Pass the Puck Bunny.’ Nolan is cool, but unless you’re really into ferrets, I’d steer clear.” I tell her about his “babies.”

“Should we finish decorating?” Cara asks after we share another laugh.

I stuff the cookie in my mouth and hop to my feet. “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” choruses in the background, and I have to agree, even though it’s been ages since I’ve paid much attention to anything other than winning and women.

Cara and I add the variety pack of ornaments to the tree, and a thought slips into my mind as I envision a day when there will only be one of these balls left—the rest broken or lost—and it’ll hold this memory with her. She drapes tinsel on the branches and then tosses a chunk at me.

I chuckle and tickle it under her nose. She grabs it along with my hand.

Once more, my vision fixes on her hazel eyes. Her cheeks lift with a smile, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s not saying. What she’s thinking. How I’m feeling.

But the moment passes, playing hide and seek.

We step back and admire our work. Cara holds her hand up for a high five. I meet her palm and fold my fingers over hers. The duet, “Baby It’s Cold Outside,” plays through the sound system.

Her breath catches. “I should probably head home.”

“Please, don’t go.”

“No?” Her eyes sparkle in the glowing light from the tree.

I turn to face her.

She clears her throat and lengthens her spine. “Well, if we were to have Kiss Class, what would that look like? Maybe you could create a syllabus.”

“I’m fresh out of chalk, so—” I laugh.

Cara remains straight-faced. “I can borrow some of my dad’s dry-erase markers.”

I shake my head slowly, a smile building on my lips.

Standing by the tree with a soft crooning carol in the background, Cara looks up at me imploringly, eagerly. Even though lately guilt and regret about my experiences with women and my reputation make me feel empty inside, it also equipped me for this moment . . . to create the opposite. Something sweet. Something real.

“Cara, I don’t think you need kissing lessons.”

“Kissing you under the Merry Kiss Me arch was the first time.”

“And you did great.”

“What if my pucker is too, I don’t know, puckery?”

“It was perfect.”

“Or if I have bad breath?”

I shift closer. “It’s minty fresh.”

“What if we bump heads or noses or,” her eyes widen, “teeth.”

I lift a shoulder with a shrug. “It happens.”

“But I don’t know where to put my hands or when to breathe or what to do.” Panic stripes her voice .

“When it’s with someone you’re attracted to and interested in, it comes naturally.”

She shrinks back. “Pierre, I am way too much in my head to even know what any of that feels like.”

I nod with the idea of going back to basics. “Okay, let’s try this.” I scurry to the kitchen and flip off the lights. I put on a few candles—my sister makes them from goat milk on the farm and sends me one every time she develops a new scent.

Cara didn’t move an inch during the ten seconds I was gone. I position myself so we’re close, facing each other. She tips her head up slowly, her breath a little wavery.

I say, “First, inhale. A deep, deep inhale.”

“Breathe, okay. I can do that.” She hastily draws a breath through her nose as if approaching this like an algebra equation.

I demonstrate long, slow, intentional breaths.

She sips the air like she is hoping for a hit of that cherry cola.

“Breathe like you’re sketching the breath.”

She tips her head to the side. “I can’t?—”

I continue to let my chest rise and fall, showing her how it’s done. She draws a calmer breath now as if realizing she was rushing through the assignment to get to the next part.

We stay like that for another minute or so, and then I say, “Now, look into my eyes.”

Her gaze flits to mine and then away. She traces my face with her eyes, but I keep mine locked on hers.

Cara’s eyes float to mine and then away a few more times before she settles in, and our gazes hold.

“This is intense,” she whispers.

“It is,” I reply as this moment reaches new depths inside me .

Cara’s shoulders relax slightly and she remembers to breathe again.

Keeping eye contact, I can’t help but wonder if she ever sketches in color. There are shades in her hazel eyes that I don’t think could be replicated.

As our gazes hold, her blinking slows and time dissolves. The world stands still. It’s just us in this moment. We lose each other yet find something else and it’s bigger and more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced, than I knew was possible.

All I can think is that this is the look of love.

Even without her touch, that heady rush flows through me.

“Next, hold up your hands.” I demonstrate like I’m going to give her a couple of high fives but position my arms so they’re opposite hers. “We’re going to see how close we can come without touching.”

“But when people kiss, they touch unless I have it all wrong.” The space between her eyebrows pinches.

“You did it very, very right. That was an A+ kiss, Cara. This is something else.” Something I didn’t realize until now. “Lesson one is about building trust. Intimacy. Being with someone in a more meaningful way.”

“How will decorating a tree and breathing together help me know how to kiss?”

“Think of them as the building blocks.”

She tucks her chin. “You mean to tell me that before you kissed all those women, you did this?” She tips her head from side to side toward our hands, mere inches away.

“I didn’t kiss as many women as you think, and no.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

“In case you’re overthinking things.”

“How did you know my brain is always in fifth gear?”

“Because you’re not them .”

She shrinks slightly, and I give my head the subtlest of shakes while maintaining eye contact. “This is so when the real kiss comes, you’ll be present to the experience rather than caught in a net of questions. It’s much simpler than you might think.”

She nods slowly as if understanding. “Overthink. It’s what I do. Drawing helps me not . . . and maybe this new hobby.”

I can’t help but smile, and we both chuckle.

Taking an inhale, I return my focus to my breath, to holding Cara’s gaze, and to the heat building between our barely touching palms.

Like the good student she is, she follows my lead. After a minute or two, her breathing eases, her shoulders relax, and once again, she lifts her gaze to mine, this time steady, confident.

Her lips part, longing fills her eyes, and she lengthens her spine slightly.

Sensation builds inside me, tugging me in two directions as I engage in an inner conflict. It would be so easy, so wonderful, to kiss right here, right now. But I tell myself to resist. To wait until she’s truly ready because I’m following her lead, respecting her boundaries.

After a bit longer, I drop my hands. “That’s all for this lesson.”

“But we didn’t kiss.”

“You have your rules.”

Slouching, she puts on her coat and then goes still. A smile grows on my lips as her eyes widen with realization. Turning slowly, Cara asks, “Are you saying this was a date? A first date?”

“A happy accident-al date.” Sticking to her rules, I open my arms for a hug.

She hesitates and then moves in. Wrapping her arms around me, I draw her close, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against mine. She fits perfectly in my embrace, not too short and not too tall. Cara is just right in every way.

When we part, I drop my hands to her waist, unable to keep them off her as the head rush that I’ve only felt when we come in contact rocks through me fast and furious.

“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.