Christmas Criminal

1. Noelle

1

NOELLE

Friday, November 29th

“ I ’m here for community service.”

I sound as crabby as I feel. There's nothing worse than having to walk into high school almost a decade after finally leaving and thinking you'll never have to go back.

Especially when you were the weird kid.

The guy sitting at the front desk peels his eyes away from the book he's reading to look at me, eyebrows high, and nods. "You must be Noelle."

I give him my best awkward smile and shrug.

I take it back: there is one thing worse.

Walking back into a high school almost a decade after you thought you'd never have to see it again, with a reputation .

His feet drop from the desk in front of him, and when he stands to his full height in front of me, I realize the man in front of me is built like a tank. All muscle underneath dark jeans and a Snow Falls High SchoolT-shirt that makes my stomach churn. A light smattering of stubble lines his face. When he presses his glasses up onto his head, his chestnut hair flies out in every direction.

He holds his hand out to me to shake, smiling politely."I'm Nick.”

"Noelle," I say, doing my best to shake his hand harder than he shakes mine because goddamnit, I refuse to let this community service arrangement take me down .

He raises his eyebrows again, and for a second I think I impressed him with my strong handshake.

Then I realize it's because he already knows my name.

High school, one. Noelle, zero.

He gestures for me to follow him. "So today we're uncovering the Christmas float. See what we're dealing with and maybe clean it up a bit. We don't have a plan for the theme of this year's float yet, but we can get it all set up for when the kids want to work on it."

I nod, following him down a long corridor that leads to the garage. As we walk, I'm hit with a slew of memories from these halls. The door to the library, where I snuck in to eat my lunch every day because I never seemed to have the same lunch period as my few friends. The hallway where I used to wait for my high school boyfriend, who lasted all of two months, to make out for three minutes between classes. The quiet cove between banks of lockers where he broke up with me after implying to the whole school that I had an STD before promptly getting with Stacy Mann.

Stacy Mann–who didn't even know he existed before then–was more enticing than me, the girl who hung on his every word.

Because I was born with skin that reacts poorly to anything except air, apparently.

The hall is filled with that high school scent that’s mostly stale with the hint of mildew.

And something… sweet. And a little smoky. Like a s’more fresh from the fire.

My mouth waters as I take another sniff, the realization dawning on me that it must be him that smells so delectable.

I inhale quickly again, like I might be able to put that scent in a little box in my brain and come back later for a midnight snack.

"Can't wait to get cleaning," I say, because I feel like I should say something before my inner obsession with the way he smells becomes outwardly obvious.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye. "Are you one of those people?"

"One of what people?"

"Who enjoy cleaning?"

I shrug. "I don't know. There was a lot of silence so I figured I should say words."

He nods. "Ah. You're one of those people."

I bite my lip, determined not to say anything else to prove him right. Or start sniffing for s’mores.

"So are you from around here?" he asks.

I pop my lips. "Yup. Went to this godforsaken school for four years."

He nods. "Ah."

And the fact that I'm back in this stupid high school reminds me of everything I'm sure people thought about me when I left.

When my older sister got her dream job in Philadelphia and moved to the city, I went with her and never looked back. While she became a corporate badass, my mom subsidized her apartment so I could live in her spare room while I got my GED and applied to college in the city.

Afterward, I started freelancing as a web designer, and one client turned into another, and that client turned into one more.

Before I knew it, I was running a whole damn business by myself.

I'm doing so well for myself, but coming back here puts me right back where I was all those years ago. Uncomfortable in my own skin. In a place where one picture of your thigh with an eczema outbreak suddenly becomes proof that you have an STD.

Never mind the fact that you're a virgin.

I don't speak to anyone from high school anymore. My college friends have stuck by me, and I love them for that. But as far as high school goes? I was over and done with it almost a decade ago when I left.I only ever come back here to visit my mom.

My dad lives here too, but I save those visits for when I have a carton of eggs with no better use.

Unfortunately that sort of decision-making is exactly what landed me back in this high school doing community service.

"I take it you're not from around here," I say, giving him a quick smile to cancel out the glare that settled on my face as we walked through my old torture chamber.

He shakes his head. "Moved here a few years ago. It's a nice town," he says, obviously not picking up on my hatred for it.

I opt to not burst his bubble. If he wants to believe this place is all sunshine and daisies, good for him.

He leans against the garage door, popping it with his hip and holding it open for me.

The door clangs shut behind us, and I pause in the dim light filtering in through the tops of the garage doors while he takes a few steps along the wall and flips on the overhead lights.

We're bathed in blinding fluorescents as we walk toward a large trailer covered in a multitude of white sheets.

He grabs a sheet and pulls it gently off, leaving it in a pile between us. When I don't immediately follow, he looks over his shoulder at me. "Are you going to help?"

I purse my lips as I grab one, tugging it off and dropping it into the pile with Nick's.

"Is it just us, for community service?" I ask.

"There aren't many criminals in these parts," he explains, shooting me a quick grin that sends a little zip of heat down my spine.

A surprised laugh jumps from my throat. "Ah. Should have known." I remove another white sheet, revealing a number of streamers and a thick ball of tinsel stuck along one side of the trailer. The only sounds around us are the humming of the lights above and the pillowy drop of sheets against the floor.

And the silence finally gets me. "Aren't you going to ask me what I did?"

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and pauses. "But you can tell me if you want to."

I glare at him. "What, are you trying to reverse psychology me?"

"No. I'm saying that if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. But if you want to, that's fine, too."

I bite my lip as I watch him brush off one side of the trailer. He grimaces when a piece of a sticky streamer gets stuck on his hand and wipes it off on his jeans.

"Well, how did you get roped into doing community service?" I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm not participating in community service. I'm facilitating it."

"Right, but like, why? Are you actually a reformed criminal who went through community service yourself and realized his true calling was helping the degenerates of the world?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "That's an interesting story you've crafted."

I wait for him to continue. "I'll tell you why I'm here if you tell me why you are."

He pauses, crossing his arms and leaning against one side of the trailer. He fixes me with his gaze. "I work here."

I raise my eyebrows. "What are you, the grand marshal of the Christmas parade?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm a teacher."

"Oh," I say, realizing that little bit of information should have been obvious . He's wearing a school T-shirt for Christ's sake. "What do you teach?"

"Math."

I raise my eyebrows. " You're a math teacher?"

"What's that face for?"

I fix my expression, struggling to hide my surprise. This man is entirely too attractive to be a math teacher. Gym teacher, maybe. But math teachers are supposed to have frizzy gray hair. Moles in strange places. Potbellies under blazers with ripped elbow patches.

"You don't look like a math teacher. And why are you here doing community service if you're a math teacher?"

"What, exactly, does a math teacher look like?"

He knows. Fuck, he knows I think he's unfairly attractive and I'm suddenly incredibly embarrassed about the poor decision-making that landed me here even though I don't regret a single moment of it.

"Not like you," I say, trying to keep things succinct as I turn to throw another sheet in the pile in an attempt to shield my reddening face.

He hums, and a moment later, he's right next to me, adding another.

"You didn't tell me why you're doing community service," I prompt, once I'm sure my face has returned to its normal color.

He turns to me, shrugging. "I like Christmas. I'd be doing this myself anyway, so when Hank asked if I had any ideas, it just seemed… serendipitous."

I laugh, the sound popping from my mouth in a definitely unattractive way. "Serendipitous?"

It's only when he raises his eyebrows with no hint of laughter that I realize he's serious.

I nod, swallowing down the laughter that so desperately wants to spill out.

"Serendipitous," I repeat.

He nods. "And apparently that's very funny." He cracks a small smile as I turn to detach a flattened streamer and a pile of silly string from one side of the float.

"That's more because you like Christmas but we're doing… this ," I say. "Why would you ruin something you like by bringing degenerates into it?"

He shrugs. "I have never regretted inviting a person to help with the Christmas float before. Or the parade or the Christmas play or the Christmas concert. There have been a number of people who have come in to help who haven't wanted to, and every single time they've gotten something worthwhile out of it. And that's rewarding to me."

He walks around the float to grab an oversized broom that he uses to collect the bits of trash we're dropping to the floor.

"I thought you said you don't have many criminals around here."

He grins. "That's true. You're my first criminal," he says. My cheeks flush with his possessive wording. "But I have a lot of students who don't have the best home life, and giving them a bit of a reprieve from that during the holidays can sometimes work wonders. Or it can blow up in my face, but we don't focus on that possibility."

I nod. "That's... nice."

He shrugs. "I think it is."

"I feel like helping out kids and taking on degenerates are two different things, though."

He sighs, resting his hands on the top of the broom. "Why do I feel like you're going to be trouble, Noelle?"

I scrunch up my face. "I'm not trouble. I promise, I'm a good person. I'm just curious."

"Okay, Criminal." When my eyes narrow, his grin ticks wider. "I'm doing it as a favor to Hank."

I scoff. "Ugh, really?"

I turn back to the float, throwing another bunch of silly string to the ground.

Hank Grundy is the town sheriff.

The one who found me throwing eggs at my dad's window last week and called my mom to come get her unruly daughter from the police station. The one who told me very firmly that what I was doing could result in a misdemeanor if I didn't play my cards carefully. The one who told me he'd conveniently forget about this domestic dispute if I went ahead and stuck around for the Christmas season and took part in some good, old-fashioned community service.

I’m fairly certain he’s in my mom’s pocket and this community service agreement is nothing more than an attempt to have me around more for the holidays.

I love my mom, but she’s not subtle when it comes to Christmas.

"What do you have against Hank?" Nick asks.

"What do you think I have against Hank?"

He shrugs. "He was just doing his job."

I eye him. "You already know why I'm here," I accuse.

He turns with the broom to collect a small pile of trash at our feet. I cross my arms, waiting for him to explain. "I know that you were caught throwing eggs at the Hellermans' house," he admits, his eyes following the path of the broom before briefly flicking up to mine. "But I don't know why."

I purse my lips, debating whether I want to tell him. On the one hand, I've always found it easier to tell things to people I don't know. If they judge me, I don't care.

But on the other hand, I have to deal with math teacher Nick for another fifty hours of community service.

And I decide to take a chance and trust him. "He's my dad."

To Nick's credit, he doesn't seem surprised. "You have different last names."

"And isn't that the beginning of a fuzzy, feel-good family movie?"

"Ah. There's some friction there."

I snort. "Yeah, there's some friction there."

He nods. "Well, hopefully the egging was worth it."

I eye him. I can't tell whether he's trying to make light of the situation or reminding me that this is supposed to be punishment.

I press my lips together before responding. "I don't regret a moment of it."

He laughs, shaking his head as he walks off to one side of the garage and grabs a trash bin. He takes a pair of plastic gloves from the tool bench and begins scooping trash inside.

"So how many eggs did you get through before you got caught?" he asks, as he scoops and I waste time walking my bits of trash over to the bin so I don't have to pull on a pair of gloves and help him.

I give him my proudest smile as I turn back to the float. "All twelve."

We clear the trash from the float and take stock of what needs to be done before the kids can start decorating it. We throw last year's decorations in the trash and note that one of the steps is wobbly–and a little zip of heat runs down my spine when Nick waves that off as something he can fix when he brings his toolbox in–and that some of the paint on the floor has chipped off and could use a new coat.

We walk out together, the school eerily dark as he closes the door and locks up behind him. He scribbles quickly across my timecard and hands it back to me as we descend the concrete stairs to the parking lot.

"You know, I never really thought about schools having locks," I say, as we head toward the only two cars.

"Yeah, unfortunately there's always going to be some kid who has a bad idea."

I laugh. "Hence the community service."

He grins. "I think you're a little old to be considered a kid with a bad idea."

I glare at him. "Hasn't anyone told you never to comment on a woman's age?"

As we reach my car, he turns to me, ignoring my question. "So, what timing works for you? School nights or weekend hours?"

I shrug, leaning against my car. "Weekends, probably. Unless my sister has something come up," I say, before realizing how much of an excuse that sounds like. "She broke her leg," I explain. "So she's not totally mobile right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he says. "Well, I can give you my number and you can let me know what sort of schedule works for you?"

I swallow. "Yeah. I kind of thought the hours would be a little more rigid."

"Well, like I said, you're my only criminal." He pauses as if he's waiting for me to do something, and then clears his throat. "I, uh, don't have a card or anything, if you want me to put my number in your phone. For scheduling."

I nod, scrambling to pull my phone out of my purse. "Right. Sorry."

I pull up my contacts and hand it over.

A moment later, he hands it back, and I see on the screen he's saved his number under 'Saint Nick.'

"Seriously?" I ask. "Saint Nick?"

He shrugs, grinning. "So you won't forget me."

A smile spreads across my face despite my best efforts. I nod. "I can't forget you, or else Hank Grundy is going to show up at my door and drag me to jail."

Nick laughs. "Hey, whatever it takes to leave an impression." He pats the roof of my car before continuing on to his own. "Text me, Criminal," he calls over his shoulder.

I kind of want to flip him off.

Or throw an egg at that smug grin on his face.

And kind of maybe tackle him to the ground and kiss him.