Page 51 of The Kiss Class
Pierre spins away and then draws me toward him before arranging us in a classic slow dance position with our joined hands lifted and his other on my waist, forcing me to grip his shoulder.
The corner of his lip twitches. “I saw you skating. You’re good.”
Taking the lead, he slides one foot forward, and I shift back in a box set formation on skates.
I say, “I practically grew up here.”
“Your dad loves you. I can see why he’d be protective. I haven’t exactly given him a reason to think otherwise.” With his hand wrapped around mine, we continue to dance on the ice.
“Except he let you be Santa. That’s a high honor.”
“Beau got food poisoning. No one wants a sick Santa. So I volunteered.”
“You weren’t voluntold?” I ask as Pierre lengthens his arm, sending me spiraling away before reeling me back in.
“He did use his stern Dadaszek face, but I want to prove that something inside changed that night at the Fish Bowl to you, mostly. Coach, too.”
“The less my father knows about that, the better.”
Pierre chuckles as our dance on ice continues like we’re a professional figure skating pair. “Cara, you’re different.”
The comment makes me wither like a post-Christmas poinsettia. “Yep. Story of my life. Different, nerdy, dorky, dare I say, corny. Not a stretch, considering I’m from a town called Cobbiton.”
“Maybe I like all of that,amour.”
He used that term of endearment in my father’s office, but it was just part of the act. Now, it’s smooth, like a caress, and makes me want to believe him.
Pierre says, “I’m from a blueberry farm in the middle of nowhere. I told you that when I got to the States, I went a little wild in the romance department. I changed and not necessarily for the better. I blame growing up extremely sheltered. Then, with one kiss, I woke up and realized that I’d dug in so deep I didn’t know how to find my way out. My way back to something real. Something meaningful. That’s you. I want to be different because you’re different.” He drags me against his chest as the song ends.
I risk glancing up at him.
His eyes are aflame.
Never mind just my stomach, my entire body is aflutter.
The song changes again, this time to a slow Elvis Presley carol. Chests close together, our slow dance finds its natural rhythm. Oneall our own.
My cheek presses against his soft Santa suit, my eyes dip closed, and my shoulders relax slightly. Is this what falling feels like? If so, I wouldn’t mind staying here for a while.
My thoughts drift like snowflakes for a long measure before my mind revs up again and it turns to sleet.
Sure, I’ve grown up on the outside, but I feel like an immature little weirdo inside. I’m still a student, but in the short amount of time I’ve been away from school, I’ve had zero interest in being a video game graphic design artist.
I’ve played Pac-Man at the pizza place in Cobbiton and that’s about it. I gaze up at the ceiling. “What am I doing with my life?”
“Dancing with me,” Pierre says, voice rumbling through his chest and into my ear.
Just as I did when I was a little girl, I feel most like myself out here on skates, in the enormous but familiar arena.
The song “I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm” by Dean Martin now sounds through the speakers and our slow dance continues until Pierre asks, “I wonder if anyone left cookies for Santa.”
“I always thought he was so lucky to be able to get away with charging a cookie tax.”
We both laugh as we glide toward the exit, but before we leave the ice, Pierre brushes his lips across my cheek.
“Does this mean we just had class number two?” I ask.
“Or was it date number two?” he replies.
