Mistletoe Kisses

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.

Chapter Three

Noelle

Once we’ve finished our milkshakes, my brazen teacher grabs his Daring Dolls shopping bag and leads me in the direction of his last stop. As we walk away from the ice cream shop, I notice several women checking him out. I can’t really blame them—he’s a damn fine specimen—but the way he catches everyone's attention still leaves me feeling restless and a little jealous.

"You’re taking me to a bookstore?" I ask when we come to a stop outside of one. "Oh boy. I hope you know what you’ve just signed up for."

His lips curve up. “I’m an English literature teacher; surely you’re not under the impression I don’t like books?”

“You can like books all you want,” I tell him as we stroll inside, “but an hour from now when I’ve only made it through the second aisle, I promise you’re going to reevaluate this decision.”

He doesn’t appear convinced. “What kind of books do you read for pleasure?” he inquires, ignoring the saleslady’s attempts to greet us from behind the register.

I offer her a friendly/apologetic smile as we breeze past. Turning my attention back to my teacher, I answer, “I like a pretty wide variety. Depends on what I’m in the mood for.”

"The new Caroline Kepnes book is out," he remarks, motioning to the thriller section. “You’d probably like her.”

"We’re already acquainted." I raise my eyebrows at him. "A fan of creepy stalkers, are we?”

"Hey, it was an interesting read," he says with a shameless smile. "No stalkers tonight, huh? What kind of book were you in the mood for, then?"

"Well… I heard the new Angel Young book is out," I murmur, glancing longingly toward the romance section.

"Angel Young?" he repeats, cocking an eyebrow. "Wow. I didn't take you for an erotica reader."

It satisfies me more than it should, shocking him like that. “How’s that for safe and comfortable?” I toss back, a little smugly.

He cocks his head, communicating without words that I shouldn’t challenge him. “Reading erotica in and of itself isn’t all that daring, but admitting to it… I’ll give you a little credit.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes at the insufferable man. “What would it take to get a lot of credit from you?”

With a mysterious little smile, he answers, “Oh, you’ll see.” His eyes burn against mine, and he heads past me into the romance section of the bookstore. "Come on, let's go find your Angel Young smut fest."

We don't need to look very hard. The book is prominently displayed, the blurred out picture of the author as enticing as the lipstick and spilled champagne on the cover. They're erotica, but they're classy erotica. My mom says that makes all the difference. She's a fan, too, though I doubt she knows I've caught her stealing my Kindle on numerous occasions.

"Sins of the Flesh," Mr. McLaren reads the title out loud, giving me a dramatic look. "I'll take two."

I'm blushing as he carries the books to the register, paying for them with his card. He hands me a copy, and I stare up at him in surprise. "For me? I thought it was part of your gift for Mystery Girl."

"One for you, one for me," he tells me with a smirk. "We can start a book club."

As we head to the parking lot, I can barely hide my smile. Tonight's going much better than I anticipated. When Mr. McLaren first told me my paper wasn't good enough, I shouldn't have panicked as much. He's just trying to help me—a fact I'm forced to remind myself of all too frequently, because my thoughts have turned inappropriate too many times since he met me at the North Pole an hour ago.

Sure, he’s the one making all the suggestive comments and making me have those thoughts, but surely it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, he’s my teacher and I’m his student—literally nothing can happen between us.

We get into Mr. McLaren’s black Tesla, and he backs out of the parking spot, putting his hand over the back of my seat as he checks behind us, and all I can smell is the leather of the seats and the masculine scent of him. I swallow down the lump in my throat. Is there anything this man could do that won't turn me on?

The drive to his place doesn’t take very long, but every minute is spent anticipating what his place will be like. Does he live in an apartment, or an actual house? Does he live alone, or with someone else? There’s no wedding ring on his finger—believe me, I’ve checked—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t live with someone.

Maybe even the girl he bought all that underwear for. Maybe she’s more than a hook-up and as soon as we step inside the place he calls home, I’ll see evidence of her all over the place.

My chest feels funny thinking about it, but thankfully the torture of anticipation doesn’t last for long. Mr. McLaren hits his signal and slows down. I look ahead at the house connected to the driveway he’s pulling into. Definitely not an apartment. He lives in a residential neighborhood and his house is a ranch on a pretty good-sized lot, situated right on the corner of the main road and a side street. It’s brick construction like most of the houses in this area, with a manicured lawn—no Christmas lights.