Page 56 of The Kiss Class

Color stains Cara’s cheeks and she breezes past my goal. “We’re fresh out of eggnog, but we have warm cider if you’d like some.”

Without waiting for me to answer, she turns to the crockpot on the counter, turns her back to me, and ladles us each a cup. When she passes it to me, our hands brush.

I get that momentary heady feeling. “My mom makes a version of this and . . .” I trail off, not exactly sure what I’m going to say because neither Cara nor I wear shoes. Her feet are cute in the holiday socks. Mine are huge and I’m wearing the dark green socksMamansent that have blueberry Christmas tree ornaments on them. That feels strangely like a big deal, like without footwear, we’re more vulnerable. Like we’re wading out past our ankles.

After taking a sip of the cider, Cara sets down her cup and pats a notebook and a pencil. “I’m ready for Kiss Class.”

“Are you planning on taking notes?”

“Of course.”

I release a breath because I let myself think this might be something more. Maybe I made it more than it is and I’m merely in the odd and unbelievable situation of teaching my coach’s daughter how to kiss. That’s all. It’s nothing else.

Puffing another breath, I say, “Okay. Kiss Class. Here goes. Write this down.”

She sits with the notebook open and the pencil poised, prepared to learn.

I pace like a thoughtful processor and say, “The slope and the radius cannot bisect the constant mean . . .” I’m totally making this up.

“Uh-huh.” Cara’s pencil slides across the paper.

“The capacitor is the biomarker for optimum chelation uptake,” I squish together as many scientific-sounding words as I can remember from high school.

“Okay. But what about the gradational return of—” she asks without looking up from the notebook.

“Not to worry. We’ll solve for that once we find the intercept quotient.” I have no idea if that even means anything.

She says, “Got it.”

I add, “Oh, and Pierre Ardor Arsenault is not a hot mess, but he is the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Cara remains focused as I spew nonsense. Okay, maybe not that last part.

“Did you get all that?” I ask.

Wearing what can best be described as an impish smirk, she looks up from her pad of paper. “Sure did.”

“Let’s see.” I gesture for the notebook.

She clutches it to her chest.

“Just want to make sure you got it all down, word for word.” And because I can’t fathom that she bought any of that nonsense.

“I did. I’m an excellent note-taker.”

“Great. But I just want to?—”

I reach for the notebook.

At the same time, she turns away, shielding it from me.

“If that’s your diary or something, I promise I won’t look at any of the other pages. You can even hold it while I check your work.”

“Professor Arsenault, I, um, don’t think you’ll be able to read my handwriting.”

Frowning, my curiosity sparks. Is Cara trying to hide something? Thinking fast, I offer to sweeten the deal. “If you let me see it, I’ll toss in an extra lesson onHow to Get All Other Guys to Stop Noticing You In Ten Easy Stepsfor free.”

“How does that work in my favor?”

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