Mistletoe Kisses

Noelle hurries over to grab said boxed pasta, then she comes back and sets it down on the counter. “He passed? I’m sorry to hear that.”

I nod absently as I gather the rest of the ingredients. “Cancer.” I reach into a lower cabinet and pull out a medium-sized pot. “Fill this with water and salt it well.”

She looks uncertain, and I wonder if she even knows how to cook. I didn’t bother asking, but her mother is loaded, so a chef might do all the cooking for her.

Filling a pot is fairly simple, though, so she does that. When it comes to my “salt it well” direction she looks a little less confident. She steals a glance at me as she dumps a little salt in, then a little more, as if she’s waiting for me to tell her when.

“Taste it,” I advise.

Her eyebrows flicker upward in surprise, but she grabs a wooden spoon to stir the salt and water—good God, she doesn’t know how to cook—then dips her pinky in and sticks it in her mouth.

“It tastes like water,” she announces.

Barely holding back laughter, I snatch the pot away from her and check it myself. It needs a little more, so I add in the appropriate amount and pass the pot back to her. “It should taste like ocean water.” I nod at the stove. “Now put it on to boil. Don’t forget to turn on the stovetop,” I tell her, since there is actually a chance she would just sit this cold pot of water on the stove if I didn’t.

Dusting off her hands as she comes back to my side, she asks, “What now?”

“Fill a large bowl with ice cold water. Do you know how to blanch broccoli?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully.

I shake my head. “It’s good that you’re pretty.”

Her cheeks flush and she narrows her eyes at me, but I can tell this time she’s not really offended. “Hey, I’m smart, too. I plan to make enough money that I never have to cook if I don’t want to.”

“A lofty goal, but impractical. You should know how, even if you never have to.”

Leaning back against my counter with her hands braced behind her, she says, “Well, I guess you’ll have to teach me that, too.”

I do. For the next half hour or so, we move around my kitchen preparing dinner together. Since she needs teaching, I get things started and show her what to do, but by the time we’re finishing up the dish, I have her doing it all. Just like everything else I’ve pushed her to try so far, she takes to it aptly. She moves with urgency and multi-tasks like a pro. She doesn’t ask me if her dish is ready; when she suspects it is, she tastes it herself, then gives a perfunctory nod and turns off the burner.

I’m leaning with my hip against the counter and my arms folded over my chest, watching her work. I’ve been debating whether or not to serve alcohol to an underage student—seems like a bad idea—but I enjoy her company so much while we cook, I can’t bring myself to rob her of the 2012 Riesling on my wine rack that will pair so well with this dish.

I err on the side of fuck it and open the wine. Noelle is plating the food at my center island while I pour our drinks. “Behind you,” I tell her, as I bring the glasses over. I have a table, but I also have seats at the island, so I figure we’ll just eat here.

I lean in a little too close when I set the wine down and catch a whiff of Noelle’s scent. I don’t know if it’s perfume or just a cocktail of all her soaps and shampoos and lotions and whatever girly shit she probabl

y uses, but she smells incredible.

Noelle looks over her shoulder at me, a proud smile on her face. She holds up the spoon for me to taste.

I cock an eyebrow in surprise, but I lean in and have a taste of her sauce. “Perfect.”

She beams, dropping the spoon in the sink and telling me, “Glad you approve.”

I do. More than I’d like to, to be perfectly honest. I quite like having Noelle in my kitchen cooking dinner with me. I like it so much, I find myself trying to ruin it.

Noelle is in front of me, facing the counter. I’m right behind her, but not touching her. Until I am. Until I inch a little closer, trapping her against the counter. Until my hands come to rest on her perfectly flared hips.

Her breath catches. Distracted by my sudden touch, she loses her smile. I don’t move my hands, and she doesn’t ask me to.

I tell myself this isn’t too inappropriate, too far over the line. Of course, I told myself making her read sex scenes to me on my desk was okay because I wasn’t touching her, and now I am.

It’s a slippery slope and I’m sliding down fast, but I keep my palms braced on her hips and cling to the fragile defense that I’m only touching her side through her dress. We could brush hips passing each other in a tight hall and touch this much. It’s fine.

Noelle swallows, her narrow shoulders tense and her posture perfect.

I want to slide my hand behind her and touch her ass, but I stop myself. That’s too far, too fast. I’ve pushed enough of her limits for today. Time to stop introducing new things before I spook her and scare her off entirely.