Page 27 of Cross Check Christmas
“Oh, I don’t have to get on the road,” he says, waving to the center of the cul-de-sac. “I’m just five doors down.”
“Wha… what do you mean?”
His grin gets wider. “My family house is being used for some Christmas movie film crew. So I’m staying with Grannie Bell and Aunt Goldie.”
The world tilts sideways. "You're staying... with Grannie?"
Why did I not think about his grandma’s house as a possibility? Probably because, in my eyes, that sweet old lady couldn’t possibly be related to… well him.
"Isn't it great?” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “We'll be neighbors."
"Neighbors?" The word comes out as a squeak.
"Welp, see you tomorrow. Grannie's already planning caroling nights. She says you have a lovely soprano."
"I am not caroling with you."
"We'll see about that. Oh, and Prof?" He taps another sprig of mistletoe I hadn’t noticed above my head. "You still owe me that kiss."
I slam the door in his face. My victory cookies have officially crumbled.
10
HENDRIX
The pucks clatter as I dump them onto the ice, but my mind's not on practice prep. All I can think about is last night - the way Colette's eyes sparkled under those Christmas lights, how close we were standing, the slight parting of her lips when I leaned in...
"Focus, man," I mutter, skating lazy figure-eights while setting up the orange cones. But who am I kidding? The memory of her vanilla-scented perfume is way more interesting than drill formations.
I'd almost kissed her. Almost. Right there on her front porch, with Grannie's elaborate light display creating this perfect romantic moment. But something held me back. Maybe it was the way Colette's shoulders tensed when I moved closer, or how her fingers nervously played with her scarf.
The thing is, I know Colette McAllister. She's not the kind of woman you can win over with just a kiss and a charming smile. She needs more than my usual playbook moves. Hell, she probably has a color-coded spreadsheet of relationship expectations tucked away in that teacher's planner of hers.
I take a few practice shots at the empty net, each puck hitting with a satisfying thwack. "Shakespeare needs wooing," I say tono one in particular, grinning at my old nickname for her. "Real, proper, sweep-her-off-her-feet wooing."
The echo of my skates scraping against ice fills the empty rink as I collect the pucks. Colette deserves the full romance treatment - flowers, candlelit dinners, the works. Not some impulsive porch kiss from the guy who used to tug her pigtails in high school. Metaphorically speaking. Her hair was always too perfectly styled for actual pigtails.
Besides, the look on her face when she gets flustered is half the fun. Why rush things when making her blush is this entertaining?
My mind is filling with ideas as I set up a line of pucks on center ice, and I’m slapped back into reality when the doors to the rink swing open. A group of teenagers shuffle in wearing matching red and green sweater vests, Santa hats tilted at awkward angles. I recognize them from Colette's pageant - the ones who chose singing over skating.
"What's this about?" I lean on my stick, trying not to laugh at their serious expressions or the way they wobble on the ice in their street shoes.
They form a semi-circle around me, and a kid with glasses steps forward, raising his hand like a conductor. They exchange meaningful glances before breaking into song:
"Deck the car with all your luggage,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-leave!
I cross my arms, eyebrows raised. "Really?"
Time to pack up all your garbage,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-leave!"
These teenagers are actually caroling me out of town. I bite my lip as they launch into their next number.
"On your one horse open sleigh,
