Mistletoe Kisses by Sam Mariano
Chapter Two
Noelle
My shift todayis even more hectic than usual. Since it’s the weekend and Christmas is coming up, the mall is packed.
Parents and nannies wait with excited, rambunctious children for the chance to meet Santa and overpay for a photograph memorializing the experience. The ones who don’t give up and get out of the long line make it all the way to me, and I greet each family cheerfully, theatrically checking Santa’s naughty or nice list for their child’s name. After that, we all do our best to get each little one on Santa's lap for a picture. The kids either tell Santa what they want for Christmas or bawl their eyes out until their frazzled parents give up and take them back, and then it's on to the next one.
By the time my shift finally comes to an end, I'm exhausted, but it still doesn't help the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
Callan McLaren wants to give me private lessons. Me—the girl half the guys in class made fun of until this year when I actually started taking care of my appearance. Before, I was always more worried about staying up late to cram as much knowledge into my head as possible than waking up early to primp for school.
That attitude lasted about a week into my senior year, then I discovered a reason to doll up a little. The guys noticed and probably assumed I must be interested in one of them, and that’s why I stepped up my game.
Nobody can know the real reason I put lipstick on these days is Mr. McLaren.
When he started teaching honors English this year, all the senior girls went gaga for him. He is ridiculously handsome, with his surly nature and aristocratic features. I can tell his body is sculpted under that blazer and shirt combination. His cheekbones are so damn sharp you could cut your tongue on them, his hair is the perfect shade of nearly-black, and his blue-grey eyes sparkle with cool interest. He's got the whole school wrapped around his finger, and he knows it, too. I've even overheard the other teachers talking about him, and who can blame them? The man looks like Bruce freaking Wayne—crisp suit, slicked back hair and to-die-for smirk included.
As my shift at the North Pole comes to an end, a new elf approaches to take my place.
Marcie Matthews is the queen bitch of Oak Grove High, and some part of me suspects she only took a job working here so that not even this small corner of my life would be free of her. She loves to gossip, and this year, she loves to gossip about me in particular.
The girl shoots me a nasty look as I make my way around her, but I ignore her, too excited about the afternoon ahead to worry about her patronizing glare.
"Noelle." I follow the sound of the deep, sexy voice to the Reindeer Barn. Mechanically operated reindeer move in the background of the play area while Christmas music plays and my forbidden crush, Mr. McLaren, stares at me from behind the picket fence with a shit-eating grin. "Wow. So, this is the outfit."
"Oh, God." I groan, hating that he's seen me like this. Holding my hand up dramatically as if to block his view, I say, “Don’t look.”
“Good luck getting me to look away,” he tosses back, smirking as his gaze rakes over me.
I wish I could erase the ridiculous ensemble from his memory, but seeing the amusement twinkling in his eyes almost makes it worth my humiliation. "I need to change clothes before we can leave."
Clasping his hand over his heart, he says, “You’re not wearing this? I’m disappointed.”
He’s obviously not serious, but hearing him express his disappointment in me—even in jest—causes a pit to open up low in my gut, just like it did yesterday when he told me the paper I’d spent so much time perfecting was ungradable trash. “I’ll just be a minute,” I tell him, starting to turn around.
"Hang on,” he calls, halting me and causing me to turn back to him. “Before you stop being Santa’s little helper..." He points to a sign at the top of a peppermint-striped pole reading Want an Elfie? Just ask one of Santa’s Helpers! “What the hell is an Elfie?”
I cringe inwardly. Elfies is what the management are calling the pictures kids take with the staff dressed as elves. "Ugh. Upon request, you can get your picture taken with an elf."
He smiles.
“No,” I say immediately.
“You can’t say no. There’s a sign,” he says, pointing to it to back him up. “If you deny me this festive merriment, I’m gonna have to tell the big guy over there.”
I flick a glance at Santa on his ostentatious throne, then look back at the decidedly sexier man in front of me. “You’re really going to make me take a picture to memorialize this humiliation?”
“I’m heartless,” he states unabashedly, pulling his cell phone out and motioning me closer.
I walk over to him despite knowing better. "Nobody better ever see this," I mutter under my breath as he drapes his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in close.
"Oh no, this one's for my own personal collection," he murmurs, holding his phone out and snapping a quick photo. He sends shivers dancing down my spine as he lowers his arm and his hand touches the small of my back for just a brief moment. "Now, go get changed. I need to do a little shopping real quick, then we're going back to my house."
My eyes widen. “Your house?”
His gaze is cool as it meets mine, but his face betrays nothing. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” I say quickly, awkwardly. “It’s not a problem, I just thought…” I trail off, waiting for him to save me, but he doesn’t. “Is that appropriate?” I finally ask, hating the awkwardness of the word. Appropriate. Ugh.
Mr. McLaren’s lips tug upward in highly inappropriate amusement. “No. Is that a problem?”
I don’t know exactly how to answer that. It’s his ass on the line, so I guess if he doesn’t care, I shouldn’t, either. “I guess not.”
“Good.”
I awkwardly nod my agreement before disappearing into the makeshift employee area/changing room behind Santa's village.
I change out of my embarrassing elf costume and into a more comfortable outfit—a floral dress with ankle boots. I pull my coat on over the top, scrutinizing my appearance in the mirror. I look good. I braided my hair this morning, and it still looks cute. I apply another layer of red gloss over my lips, telling myself it's not to impress Mr. McLaren. Then I make my way back to where we spoke earlier, but he's nowhere to be seen.
Knitting my brows together, I turn this way and that trying to find him. When I finally do, my stomach drops and I feel the faintest tickle of jealousy.
Mr. McLaren is talking to Marcie. She’s laughing at something he said, and she reaches out, wrapping her French-tipped fingers around his sexy forearm.
Back off, Marcie.
I approach them as casually as I can, feeling territorial as I clear my throat. "I'm ready, Mr. McLaren."
“Ready for what?” Marcie demands, looking me up and down as if she can’t possibly imagine what Mr. McLaren would ever want with me.
I hold her gaze, an unfriendly glint in mine. “Ready to get back to work—oh wait, no. That’s you.”
Her dark eyes narrow on my face, but she’s more invested in pretending to be charming for Mr. McLaren than showing her bitchiness to me.
Intervening before she has a chance to respond, Mr. McLaren says, “I'll see you Monday at school, Marcie.” His gaze moves over Marcie in her elf costume before he finally shifts his attention to me. "Good luck with your essay."
She nods at him and gives me a dirty look before turning and walking off.
"What was that all about?" I ask as we make our way toward the food court.
"She needed my advice regarding one of her assignments," he says, glancing at the store signs as we pass by.
I bet she did.I’m tempted to pry further. I want to know exactly what they talked about, but I hold my tongue and keep walking. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Like I said, I need to pick up a gift," he answers before stopping in front of a storefront. "Ah, here we are."
"Daring Dolls?" I give him a sideways glance, my heart speeding into overdrive. Again. "You're taking me lingerie shopping with you?"
He smirks at me. "Don’t get too excited. I just need to pick something up. Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by the sight of underwear? I thought girls outgrew that stage shortly after hitting puberty.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I say a little defensively, flicking a glance at the storefront. Since it’s Christmastime, the store is decorated in candy cane colors with sparkling silver snowflakes hanging overhead. From here, I can see a platinum-haired mannequin in red lingerie trimmed with white fluff and decked out in red silk stockings.
“You can wait outside if it’s too much for you,” he offers.
I narrow my eyes at him. He worded it that way on purpose so he could make me out to be some kind of wimp if I took him up on the offer.
Not willing to tap out over some panties, I shake my head wordlessly and follow him into the store with my lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
Despite my reluctance to come here with him, I find myself growing curious as he leads me around the store. It begins innocuously enough, casually wondering which items he finds sexy. I can’t tell looking at him, because I stay a step behind him, mostly keeping my gaze locked on his broad shoulders and the back of his head. I love the way his dark hair curls up just slightly around the back of his neck.
Unfortunately, between the path of my thoughts and the sensual environment we’re in, my curiosity deepens and I can’t help wondering who he’s shopping for.
As I’m wondering about his love life and waiting for him to grab whatever item he came for so we can leave, Mr. McLaren grabs a collapsible shopping basket and opens it up like he’s going to need it.
"Um, I thought we were just making a quick stop here. Why you do you need a basket?"
"Just need to pick up a few last-minute Christmas gifts,” he answers. Then, glancing back at me with a slightly raised eyebrow, he adds, “A gift card won’t do for this one.”
I’m careful to keep my annoyance off my face lest he accurately assume I’m jealous, but the comment annoys me. I know he can be a real asshole, but is this seriously his way of letting me know he has a girlfriend?
Mr. McLaren glances up at the mannequin on display in her sexy Christmas lingerie, then keeps walking and shifts his gaze toward a rack of black, sheer teddies. I wonder if that’s the sort of thing he’s looking for as I walk past a few seconds later, but he doesn’t stop to look any closer.
After prowling through the front of the store, he stops at a table with a line of neatly displayed panties on top. Much to my dismay, he picks up a red lacy thong with corseting detail on the hips and just looking at him touching the delicate fabric makes my skin catch fire.
"What do you think of these?" he asks.
"Mr. McLaren, this is... extremely inappropriate," I manage, my eyes shifting from the flimsy piece of underwear in his hands to his mischievous eyes.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” he shoots back, clearly amused by how flustered I am.
Mortification deepens the flush of my cheeks. "I guess they're cute..."
"Hmm, not something you'd like?" He puts them down and grabs a white lacy pair with a fully covered butt instead. "You probably prefer something a little more innocent than a thong, huh? How about this?"
Crossing my arms and looking away, I tell him, “Why don’t you just worry about the woman you’re actually shopping for? I don’t think my underwear preferences are any of your business.”
“I’m no good at picking these things out myself,” he says dismissively.
I clutch my heart in feigned shock. “Did you just admit to not being good at something?”
His lips curve up in self-deprecating amusement. “Shocking, I know. But when it comes to lingerie, I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. You’re a woman; you know what to look for.” He picks up an expensive white bra with nice lace detail. “How about this one?”
I flush, giving him a curt nod, and he adds it to his shopping basket.
He keeps shopping, quick and efficient, until his basket is full of skimpy lingerie he made me pick out for someone else. I notice everything is in the smallest size, and the bra size is the same as mine, too. At least I'm his type, I guess.
Finally, he approaches the cash register where a flirty sales associate adds up his astronomical bill.
"Oh, is this your little sister?" she purrs, shooting me a sweet smile.
"Um, no," I reply, barely resisting the urge to make a face at her.
He hands the woman a platinum credit card to pay with. Her eyes flash with even more interest and she scans his card. As she does, I glimpse the amount on the register and have to do a double take.
He just spent several hundred dollars on underwear.
“Someone sure is a lucky woman,” the cashier says as she reaches across the counter and hands him a shopping bag full of delicate undergarments.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs noncommittally as he takes the bag, completely missing the way she tries to catch his eye.
Despite the fact that he just bought all this stuff for someone else, I'm pretty sure the woman wants to ask for his number.
Mr. McLaren doesn't seem to notice, motioning me out of the store without another word to her. I follow in his footsteps, secretly pleased that I cockblocked him. I don't want to see who he's hooking up with.
Although... I kind of do. If only to know more about the women he likes.
"You want a milkshake?" he asks me once we're outside the store.
"I guess so.” I glance ahead at the food court. "Do you have any more shopping to do before we leave?"
"Just one more stop,” he answers.
When we get to the counter, without even asking what I like, he orders for us both. One vanilla for him, one strawberry for me.
I can't take my eyes off him. Forget the presumption inherent in what he just did—how the hell did he know my favorite flavor? It's like he's reading my mind. And while obnoxiously arrogant, I do kind of like that he took the liberty of ordering for me...
Still, I can't help myself, innocently saying, "I was actually hoping for vanilla, too."
"No problem," he says, not looking up as he scrolls through his phone. "You can have some of mine."
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the idea of taking a sip of his drink. That’s so intimate, something a couple would do.
Goosebumps erupt all over my skin, and I clear my throat to hide my nerves, then I try to shift the conversation back toward familiar ground. "So, what are we going to be doing in these private study sessions, anyway?"
"Whatever I tell you to do," he states, pocketing his phone and looking over at me.
I cock an eyebrow, skeptical. “Whatever you tell me to do?”
“That’s right.”
"What does that mean?” I demand, my curiosity growing. “Like, you’ll assign extra reading and writing assignments for me in addition to my normal coursework?”
“That’ll be part of it. I’m going to teach you a lot of things, Noelle. Your perspective is noticeably limited by your narrow range of experience. You’re far too comfortable in the tiny box you live in. You’re an intelligent girl and you’ve got plenty of talent, but you always play it safe. You never leave your comfort zone, and outside of it—that’s where true brilliance lives. Your work is technically good, but it’s cowardly. Boring. Uninspiring. You’re capable of much more.”
I swallow, that sick feeling in the pit of my gut opening up again and threatening to swallow me whole. “I didn’t think my paper was boring. I spent a lot of time working on it, trying to… make it clear and concise…”
He pulls his credit card out again and passes it to the cashier, who I’d forgotten about while he detailed my inadequacy.
"I read the book three times, I don’t see how..." I bite my lower lip. I don't like justifying myself, but I know I did a thorough job on that paper. "But if you say it wasn't good enough, I guess I have to believe you. After all, you’re the teacher and I’m the student. Surely you know things I don’t."
Mr. McLaren’s sensual lips tilt up and he gives me a look that feels almost suggestive. “I know plenty you don’t, Miss Harper.”
I swallow, ignoring the way my heart races in response. “Then teach me.”
“I will,” he assures me.
The cashier puts our drinks on the counter. Mr. McLaren opens a straw and sticks it in. Without waiting for us to find a table and take a seat, he leans forward to taste his shake, his lips wrapping around the straw.
A jolt of arousal takes me off guard as his slate gray eyes land on me. I feel so skittish all of a sudden, it’s all I can do not to run off and leave him here.
God, even watching him drink out of a freaking straw is getting me all hot and bothered.
He straightens and adds, "I'm glad you're open to trying new things. With a little constructive criticism and some new experiences, we’ll level you up before you head off to college."
I can’t for the life of me remember what he’s talking about. All I can think about are those lips wrapped around that straw, his intense eyes on me, the bagful of lingerie in his other hand...
Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
"I think you’re being a little rough on me." I look away, flushed from all these confusing—and decidedly uncomfortable—feelings. "I'm afraid my skin isn't as thick as I'd like it to be."
"That skin of yours can be worked on," he assures me. "We'll build up to it. It might hurt at first because you’re still very tender and new, but push past the boundaries you’re used to and you’ll soon find your responses change. You'll end up seeking it out. Loving it. Craving it.”
His words are so full of double entendres, I'm forced to hide my heated face with the gigantic milkshake cup as we head to a table.
It takes a few minutes for my coloring to return to normal. Mercifully, Mr. McLaren doesn’t do anything else to infuriate, humiliate, or arouse me. We share a companionable silence while I gather my bearings and suck down half of my strawberry shake before he finally remembers I didn’t want strawberry.
"Didn't you want to try the vanilla?"
I’m sorely tempted to tell him no thanks and keep drinking my own shake, but his words from a few minutes ago echo in my head, accusing me of never wanting to be uncomfortable and always taking the safe road.
I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to spend my life terrified to step outside my comfort zone. I want to know what’s out there. Maybe I want someone like him to show me.
I nod my head.
He passes me the cup. "Here you go."
I wrap my fingers around it, taking the straw between my carefully glossed lips and sucking until the milky drink hits my tongue. Fluttering my lashes, I moan with pleasure, then look at Mr. McLaren the way he looked at me, my tongue peeking out to lick the straw. "So good, Mr. McLaren."
He watches me silently, his eyes dark and hooded as I pass him the drink back, licking my lips.
For a long, tense moment, the only sound is that of my heart pounding in my ears. Mr. McLaren doesn’t utter a word, he just sits there, staring at me.
Finally, he breaks eye contact. His gaze drifts to my lips, then flickers to the straw hanging out of his milkshake.
“A little sloppy,” he says. “You got lipstick all over it.”
My face flushes more shades of red than the panties in that godforsaken shopping bag. Well aware of the innuendo he’s making, I draw my own milkshake closer and tell him, “Just be thankful I didn’t use my teeth.”
It’s quick, but I see Mr. McLaren bite back a smile. Attempting to lure us back into safer waters, he cocks an eyebrow, adopts his teacher voice, and asks sternly, “We are still talking about milkshakes, aren’t we, Miss Harper?”
Innocently as can be, I suck on my straw. When I pop off, I ask, “What else would we be talking about, Mr. McLaren?”
For all his derisive talk of safety boxes and comfort zones, Mr. Daredevil doesn’t dare answer me.
