Christmas Criminal

5. Noelle

5

NOELLE

Wednesday, December 4th

A nother day, another two hours of community service.

Nick is reading again when I arrive, his feet propped up on the desk like usual. He grins when he sees me, and for a second, I mirror that grin right back at him.

And then something comes over his face, like he remembers he's not supposed to be happy to see his criminal, and his smile fades.

He checks the time on his phone as he stands. "Look who's almost on time today," he remarks.

I roll my eyes. "I finished work earlier than usual. Thought I would grace you with a few extra minutes of my presence."

"I'm honored," he deadpans, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Did the hut-building work for you yesterday?"

I shrug. "Sure. What else are we going to do for community service? "

"Again, clapping erasers out back is always an option."

I roll my eyes. "Come on, Mr. Monroe. Let's go build some huts."

He nods and follows me out the front doors of the school.

Where we run smack dab into Robbie.

"Am I late?" he asks. "Sorry, I needed to find a ride."

I look at Nick. How many detentions did he give the poor kid?

"For hut-building?" Nick asks.

"Yeah."

Nick glances at me. "You did your detention yesterday. You didn't have to come back again," he says.

Robbie shrugs but doesn't say anything further.

"Unless you want to build huts?"

He shrugs again.

"To be clear, you're welcome to come with us, but you're under no obligation to help."

He shrugs again, glancing at me.

"Oh my god, Nick. Let the kid build a hut if he wants to build a hut."

Nick throws his hands up at me. "God Noelle, it's like zero to sixty with you. I'm making sure he knows he's fulfilled his duty."

I gesture to him. "I think he knows he's fulfilled his duty. Right, Robbie?"

He nods, and then opens his mouth like he's going to speak and decides against it. Nick and I both naturally wait, seeing if he's going to speak. "I liked building the hut yesterday."

I nod. "Well, thank god you'll be there because I don't think I can lift some of those pieces on my own and lord knows old Mr. Monroe can't do it himself."

"Hey! I'm not old."

"You're the oldest one here," I parry back, noting the small smile on Robbie's lips as we turn and head in the direction of the town square.

"Well, somebody around here has to be an adult," he says, knocking my arm.

"It's called having fun. You should try it sometime."

He shrugs. "I have plenty of fun outside school."

And when I glance at him, he winks.

He winks .

What on earth is this man implying?

And why do I so desperately want to be a part of it?

I won't lie–I was poking the bear a little bit yesterday. Talking about swearing while coming and all that bullshit.

But I can't get a read on whether he's into it or not. Warmth trailed down my spine when he implied he knows when a woman is orgasming.

Every time he walks me to my car, I feel like the natural closure of our night should involve a good, old-fashioned kiss at the car. Maybe a little groping with some tongue action. Hell, throw a little grinding in there too.

I never got to be the fun girl in high school. I had one relationship that ended with the sharing of a picture that really did not need to be shared.

And thanks to that picture, no one ever wanted to touch me.

And now I keep getting funny warm feelings in my core when he looks in my direction. When he gives me those hidden smiles that Robbie doesn't see or those winks that–I'll be honest–make me salivate.

"Yeah, I bet you have fun outside school by, like, calculating an exact twenty percent tip anytime you eat out."

Oh god. And now I'm thinking about him eating me out.

And taking twenty percent of his tip.

To start, at least.

"I do find it very rewarding to be able to do mental math quickly when I need it," he says. "Though to be fair, recently I've been giving closer to twenty-five percent and rounding to the nearest dollar. I'm really into integers lately."

I look at Robbie and make a gagging face. "Are you hearing this? Really into integers ?"

"And what are you into, sans serif fonts?"

I snort. "Okay, I'm a web designer. I literally have to have an opinion on fonts as part of my job."

"I'm a math teacher. I should enjoy math. I don't think it's all that wild."

I eye him. "You have one of those shirts that says, like, I heart math or something like that, don't you?"

He narrows his eyes. "If I catch you snooping through my drawers, I'm going to put you in detention again," he tells me.

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Jesus Christ, get a room already," Robbie mutters, walking ahead of us to check in with the orange-shirted volunteers.

Nick stands beside me as we wait for Robbie to return, and when he speaks, his voice is low. "Keep it in your pants, Noelle. You're making Robbie uncomfortable."

I turn to him, ready to spit fire, when Robbie calls us over and beckons for us to follow him and the volunteer to our hut's location.

I keep my voice low when I turn to him. "If you catch me in your drawers ? That was all you, Mr. Monroe. Are you trying to invite me into your pants? Because that's certainly what that sounded like."

" Dresser drawers," he says.

"You're not denying it," I say, coming to a stop as the volunteer gives us the same spiel he gave us yesterday.

He gives me that stern look he whips out every once in a while when I poke him enough. "Why don't you get your head out of the gutter and focus on helping Robbie build his hut?"

I point at him as I drop my bag off on the far end of the hut, which, if yesterday was any indication, should be out of our way. "You started it."

And when the volunteer leaves and it's the three of us, Robbie rolls up his sleeves. Nick and I click into our roles easily, letting Robbie run the show and tell us where to go, what to do, how to build.

He and Nick lift the heavy pieces, and I dart around underneath and between them with the drill, screwing bits and pieces in as Robbie directs me. At some point, the two of them are holding up a large piece of particle board, and as I position myself underneath and screw it into place, I can't help noticing that Nick's sweatshirt has gotten caught on the edge, tugging it up enough to see a smattering of hair dusting his skin above his jeans.

My mouth goes dry .

And I accidentally hit the power button on the screwdriver, drawing attention to myself.

Nick ducks underneath the edge of the board with a furrowed brow.

"You okay?" he asks, as his shirt drops back down and disappointment settles in my stomach.

"Yep," I say, clicking the power button again and holding it up. "Just trying to screw you."When his eyebrows pop up, I realize what I said. "Just trying to say'screw you’!"

The damage is already done.

He laughs, and I think I detect a hint of pink in his cheeks. "Inappropriate, Noelle."

I shut my eyes in embarrassment as he turns his attention back to the board he's holding up.

Fuck me. Leave it to me to try to have an attitude and instead attempt to–well, screw him.

I need to get my thoughts under control.

I step up to the edge of the board and screw the pieces in according to Robbie's directions.

And for the rest of the day, every time I use the drill, he raises one eyebrow at me, because apparently we both know what I'm thinking.

That I desperately want to screw the math teacher.

Today goes twice as fast as yesterday, and we finish with a significant amount of time to spare. Robbie wanted to stay and see if we could build another in our allotted time frame, but the volunteers in charge were concerned about having people out too late.

So instead, we wander back to the high school. And like last night, Robbie calls his buddy for a ride as we're walking home.

Nick and I wait on the stairs outside the high school until the same car appears and Robbie excitedly clambers in.

And then it's just the two of us.

"Anything else I can help with?" I ask, checking the time on my phone. I can't get a read on whether Nick is the type to give me a free pass for the extra hour I was going to get tonight if Robbie hadn't been such a quick builder.

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and throws me a quick grin as he starts across the parking lot toward my car. "But don't worry, I'll still give you the full time."

I follow him, somewhat reluctantly. "I’m surprised you're not making me bang erasers together."

"If I'm being totally honest, I think it would take an hour for me to track down enough erasers to make it worth your while. I'm one of the few teachers who still has a chalkboard, and I use a rag instead of an eraser."

I raise my eyebrows, leaning against my car as I dig through my bag for my keys. "Whose Cheerios did you piss in to get that deal?"

His brow furrows. "I requested the chalkboard."

"You did? But it's so messy. And you know, chalky. You like having that texture on your hands all day?"

He shrugs, mirroring my lean and resting one elbow on top of my car. "I think there's something charming about it," he says. "When I was a kid we only had chalkboards at school. So when I decided to become a teacher, I kind of thought of that as part of the deal."

I nod. "You've romanticized your chalkboard." I hum. "I think you have Stockholm Syndrome, sir."

He laughs, turning to face the parking lot. "It's not like my chalkboard is holding me hostage."

"It's sure keeping you in the past."

He gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. "You can tear my chalkboard out of my cold, dead fingers. I don't care what you think about it. I like the chalk on my hands."

"To each their own. Personally, I prefer knives in my eyes."

He shakes his head while he laughs. "You really have a response for everything, don't you?"

"Not everything," I say, the viscerally remembering that cocky comment he made about never wondering when a woman comes.

I didn't have much to say to that .

Other than Bet .

I tug my timecard out of my bag and hand it to him. He signs quickly, copying one row down to the next, and hands it back to me. "There you go, Criminal."

"Thank you," I say, replacing it in my bag and letting out a long breath as I look up at him. I swallow, because I swear he's giving me kiss me eyes.

Or maybe it's me giving him kiss me eyes.

He moves forward a smidge, and for a second I think he might.

But he only pats the top of my car and reaches for the driver's side handle. He pulls it open and gestures for me to get in.

"Get home safe," he says.

"Thanks.”

And he closes the door on me.

When I get back to my mom's house, she has Christmas music on full blast and an array of presents scattered across the living room floor. She's wearing a Santa hat and drinking something out of a tea cup that's likely alcoholic, considering the way she flails when I walk in the door. Her frizzy brown hair is pulled into a long braid that falls over one shoulder as she moves.

"Noelle!" she screeches. "You weren't supposed to be home yet! Close your eyes!"

"Sorry," I say, holding a hand in front of my face as I move through the living room to my old bedroom.

The sound of crinkling paper almost drowns out the tune of Jingle Bell Rock playing through the speakers. She stacks all of the presents I wasn't supposed to see underneath the coffee table and covers it with a red and white striped blanket.

Her house is a small bungalow with an open floor plan and high ceilings. The kitchen and living rooms are separated only by a plushy gray couch, and off to one side, a staircase brings you to the bedrooms upstairs.

I head for the stairs, doing my best to avoid the shrine to my sister and me that covers the wall.

"Wait, honey!" my mom calls, scrambling to her feet and following me. "How was community service? Were you with the math teacher again?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'll probably be with him for at least the near future," I say.

My mom crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the wall before her. She gives me a sly grin that tells me the small town gossip chain is alive and well. "Hank said the two of you are getting along well."

"We're getting along fine," I say.

She smiles, waiting for me to continue, but when I don't, she says, "Well, that's great, honey! It's nice that you have a friend in town that you can hang out with."

I narrow my eyes. "He's not my friend, and we're not hanging out. It's community service."

She waves that off. "It's Hank community service. I'm happy you're not hating it."

I shrug. "It's a lot better than I thought it would be," I admit.

She grins. "I hear he's cute," she says.

I turn on my heel and continue up the stairs. "Goodnight, Mom!"

"I take it you agree!"

I shake my head as I close myself in my childhood bedroom. A moment later, I hear her moving around downstairs, the ripping of tape as she wraps presents and her low hum as she sings along to her Christmas songs.

And I throw my dirty clothes into a pile by the door, shower, and change into a silky sleep set that I bring whenever I have to stay at my mom's because it gives me a smidge of adulthood in a place that is otherwise filled with memories of my parents' divorce, of uncomfortable high school years, of never feeling right in my own skin.

It's our last day of community service for the week. I have my dirty clothes packed up in a bag in the trunk of my car, as well as my sheets, which I have to cart back and forth so I can wash them in my special detergent. My mom bought the same kind and does her best, but I think her normal detergent gets stuck and mixed in somehow, because I always end up itchy after my mom's house, no matter what.

A niggling feeling in the back of my mind tells me it's not the detergent, but the stress of being in a place I never fit in.

But that, I can't change. So I do what I can with my sheets and pretend like I won't spend the next few days itchy.

When I walk into the school, I'm in a chipper mood. Just a few more hours of watching Robbie slipping into the skin of a confident, proud kid, and then I get to go home and see my sister.

I give Nick a big grin as I push through the doors, and he smiles right back at me.

"Someone is in a good mood today," he observes, standing and tucking his hands into his pockets as he rocks back on his feet.

I shrug. "I'm happy to be going home soon."

"Ah. You got that Friday feeling," he says knowingly. "I think Robbie had himself a Friday feeling today, too. He was all sorts of chatty during class today–apparently he has a date with some girl he likes. Why do I feel like the two of you are going to give me a run for my money tonight?"

"Better watch out," I tell him.

He grins, and we step out to the front of the school to wait for Robbie to show.

"So, what are you up to this weekend? Hanging out with your sister?" he asks.

I nod. "Yeah. Knowing her, she's going to want to watch some Christmas movie and cut snowflakes or something."

"Your sister is a Christmas person, too?"

"Yeah. Not as bad as my mom, but she definitely enjoys the holiday. Add you into the mix and it's like I'm surrounded from every angle with people who love Christmas."

He shrugs. "Is that the worst thing in the world?"

I roll my eyes, letting out a long breath. "Is it the worst thing in the world? No. Is it a little tiring sometimes? Yes."

"Tiring?"

I bite my lip, wondering how much of this I should divulge to him. The divorce that manages to derail every single Christmas season in some way or another. My sister's leg, this year.

"My family always seems to have had a rough time during Christmas. And I don't know why, but when I was growing up, it was almost like they tried even harder at Christmas to even out the shit we were dealing with. I remember wondering why everyone was trying so hard. Like my dad has a second family, this Christmas is going to suck. So can we all accept that and tap out this year?"

He's quiet for a moment. "I guess I can understand why Christmas might not be your favorite time."

"I don't have a problem with it now. But it does feel a little disingenuous sometimes. Like, we're adults. We don't believe in Santa. We work and buy ourselves something if we want it. So it seems like a whole lot of fanfare for... nothing. And you kind of have to pretend like it's this magical time of year."

He nods. "I think a lot of people feel like that around the holidays. I think you should think of Christmas in whatever way it works for you. If it's a chance to spend time with loved ones, maybe that's all it has to be. They can do their silly little traditions, and you can enjoy spending time with them."

He leans against the concrete wall along one edge of the stairs, his hands still in his pockets. He looks so easygoing, with a light breeze ruffling his hair.

"Is that what you do?" I ask. "Use it as an excuse to spend time with your family?"

He clears his throat, one hand running through his hair and his eyes darting away from mine.

And at that moment, a car careens into the parking lot, music blasting. It pulls up right next to us, and Robbie stumbles out, giving us a tense smile in lieu of a greeting. He waves over his shoulder as the car drives away.

"Hey, Robbie," Nick says.

Robbie only nods, and Nick's head cocks to the side so subtly that I doubt I would have noticed it if I hadn't been studying the curve of his jaw.

"Ready?" Nick asks, his eyes snapping to each of us in turn.

"Ready," I confirm.

Robbie nods and turns to lead us over to the town square.

I catch Nick's eye as he follows, and he gives me a look that I can't quite decipher.

I tug on his arm, leaning close. "I thought you said Robbie was having a good day," I say, not at all immune to the rock hard forearm in my palm. I have to stop myself from squeezing it, from wrapping both hands around it and rubbing.

Because the man has some sexy forearms. Strong, with a few nice veins running through. A dusting of the right amount of hair along the top.

"He was . I hope everything is alright," he mutters, his eyes glued to Robbie.

I let out a breath. "I guess we'll see."