Mistletoe Kisses

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.