Christmas Criminal

8. Nick

8

NICK

Wednesday, December 11th

I 'll give it to Noelle, she doesn't act rejected when I move away from her. On the contrary, she puts all of her efforts into her cleaning. She sweeps away every last bit of trash on the floor, and when that's all gone, she focuses her attention on the float.

The kids have decorated it like a candy cane this year, all red and white stripes. There are a few pieces that have fallen out of place, and she does a circle around the float, putting fresh glue wherever it's needed.

I busy myself cleaning the floor she painted that's already covered in dirt from the kids' shoes. I fill the mop bucket, even though it's overkill for the job I'm doing, and clean slowly, trying my hardest to pay attention to anything but her.

She's acting totally normal, like nothing ever happened, but every time she turns away from me I get this tight feeling in my chest like she's upset with me.

And I can't help but wonder why I was so ready to sign her timecard and be done with her. As much as I hate to admit it, I kind of enjoyed our time cleaning and building huts. As much as I wouldn't necessarily categorize those things as fun, they felt like Christmas activities. The same way that cleaning up the wrapping paper on Christmas morning isn't a fun job, but it's one that has to be done.

And the joy that comes with it is worth the chore.

I also wouldn't have to be so professional anymore, if I just gave her the rest of her hours.

But that sounds like a dangerous game to play.

Sure, I could tug her into my chest and kiss her in the way I've been imagining, but she could also choose to walk away and never see me again.

And as much as I don't want to admit that I'm scarred from past experiences, it doesn't take a genius to see the lasting effects Emily had on me. The fact that everything I had ever wanted was never good enough for her . The way I excused her behavior so quickly because I thought she might be the person I was looking for.

Noelle would be fun, no doubt, if the way she wields that tongue of her is any indication of what her hips can do.

But I'm not in a place where I'm looking for mindless sex. And I'm not sure I can dive headfirst into something more, right now. I'm stuck in the in-between–I want something more than sex, but I'm not sure I can handle it.

I don't think I realized it until recently, but ever since my mom died, I've been searching for a family of my own. Someone to spend this time of year with other than my students or fellow teachers who invite me out for the occasional beer.

As much as I'd love to bend Noelle over the side of that float, I'm not here for random sex.

And unfortunately for me, she's not here for much longer.

When we finish our cleaning and head back to the front entrance, she's quiet. I surreptitiously glance over at her only to see her chewing at her bottom lip, her eyes following the ground in front of us carefully.

I push open the front door for her to walk through and she nods to me in thanks.

I follow her to her car, like I do every night.

But when she turns to me, she takes a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling as she lets it go. "Look, I'm sorry," she says, throwing her hands in the air. "What I said was really inappropriate, and you know, I got that vibe from you. The professional vibe. And I feel so bad that I pushed it."

I shake my head, leaning against the side of her car in the hopes that the casual movement might portray that I'm not, in fact, curling up in the fetal position on the inside. "Really no issue, Noelle."

Her nose crinkles. "I must have read the room totally wrong, and I'm really, sincerely sorry. And please, can we forget all of that ever happened?"

Her eyes are on mine, desperately waiting to be released from whatever turmoil is going on inside her head.

And now I have to choose between maintaining that boundary I set and giving her her confidence back.

"Look, you didn't read the room wrong," I tell her.

She eyes me. "I didn't?"

I press my lips together. "I'm trying to be professional, Noelle."

She nods. "Okay." She pulls open her car door. "You're trying to be professional, but it's difficult?"

"What?"

She shakes her head. "Never mind. Sorry, that was an inappropriate question, too."

I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, I take the outside handle of her door.

"Yes," I say, and then I close her in before she can say anything else.

I catch her eye through the window before turning on my heel and heading back to my car.

It's the first day of the fair, and I've been assigned to hot chocolate duty with a number of my students. Mostly mathletes, who decided they wanted to participate in this year's fair to raise money for letter jackets for this year's competition.

Because apparently math nerds have style now. They convinced me into joining by offering me one.

The high school kid in me couldn't resist.

Plus... I didn't really want to go to the fair alone. I'll go for a few laps through the town square through the night–it's not like the mathletes actually need me anyway–but it's nice to have a reason to be here. Like all the parents walking around while the kids go off with their friends.

Otherwise, I'm just some teacher who goes to town events alone.

Once the kids have gotten into a good groove, serving people and thanking them for contributing to their jacket fund, I step out of our hut, warm cup of hot chocolate in my hand. I take a right on the pavement and head around in a big circle, exploring what this year's winter festival has brought us.

Mrs. Smith's scarf booth, piled to the ceiling with warm weather clothing. Mr. Bellman's rare coin and train booth. Mrs. Pontsky's cookies–I stop for a packet of warm ones because I have dreams about them all year. Various Christmas ornaments and peppermint snacks and ugly sweaters and every Christmas treat under the sun.

People of all ages swarm along the pavement ahead of and behind me. There's laughter and Christmas music and someone ringing bells above the crowd.

I finish up my loop, saying hello to the multitude of former students and parents that I've gotten to know over the past few years, and head back toward the hot chocolate booth. I'm pleased to see a long line out front and the kids running the booth hustling to fulfill orders. They work quickly and without getting flustered.

I make my way toward them, weaving through the crowd gathered out front.

And as I'm about to slip behind the table, a manicured hand grabs my arm.

I turn to see Delia Wilson grinning at me, her fingers squeezing my arm through the fabric of my jacket.

"Nick," she says, her smile too white and her eyes too bright. "So nice to see you."

As much as I wanted to like her, Delia was a problem parent. Her daughter graduated last year, but before that, she was up my ass almost every day asking what sort of extra credit her daughter could do to get an A in my class. About what sort of extra credit she could do to ensure that happened.

Her daughter got an A because she deserved it. She was a hardworking kid, and I was happy to write her a reference letter for college. But her mother rubs me all sorts of the wrong way.

Mostly because she always looks at me with that wide smile and a look in her eye like we know each other.

We don't. I don't want to know her like that. She bothers me–not in a good way–and I have no inclination to hang out with her. I can't tell what's going on in her head because she always wears the same delighted expression on her face, and while I could see that others might find it welcoming, I find it jarring. No one is always that happy, and it gives me that same uncomfortable feeling you'd get seeing someone walking around the Christmas fair in a hockey mask.

Maybe it's because I'm one of the few who knows it's all a manipulation. Just a sneaky way to get what she wants from people. I've seen it work a number of times–on other teachers, on the principal, even on other parents. She says what she wants and then she smiles at you until you bend to her will.

"Delia," I say in greeting, doing my best to not let it show how little I want to talk to her.

"How have you been?" she asks, her hand still on my arm.

I give her a terse smile. "Fine, and yourself? How is Hattie doing at college?"

"Oh, she's doing so well. Really flourishing," she says, shaking her head. "I'm so relieved to see she's doing well. You know how much support she always needed."

I blink. "I think Hattie always had a good handle on things."

She grins, waving me off like this is a compliment. "Oh, that's so sweet of you to say. We both know she needed a little outside help from time to time."

I let out a long breath. I know exactly what she's implying, and it drives me insane that she thinks all of those times she's hit on me is the reason her daughter did so well in school.

Hattie did well despite her.

"She certainly needed no outside help from me," I tell her, pressing my lips together to avoid telling her that all she did was make a fool of herself. "Hattie earned every good grade she ever got on her own."

Delia nods exuberantly. "Oh, right, right. Of course, yes. Hattie earned every good grade she ever got."

And then she winks at me.

I'm momentarily stunned to silence. Delia really just believes what she wants to believe.

"You know, I was thinking. Now that Hattie's off at school, it might be nice if we got together for a drink sometime."

I shrug away from her, glancing at the crowd around us waiting for hot chocolate. "Look, I'm supposed to be helping out with this booth. I should probably get back to it," I say, turning and ducking around another few people until I'm safely surrounded by mathletes.

I take a long breath, running my hands over my face as I step out of the way of one of my students who's balancing three cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He raises his eyebrows at me as he passes, as if to ask what I'm doing standing around, and I take a step toward the front of the line to take the next customer.

"Oh for–"

I stop myself before an expletive slips out.

First Delia, now Noelle. Two opposites of the same spectrum.

Delia, who I refuse to touch with a ten-foot pole, and Noelle, who I can only barely manage to not touch despite putting every barrier I can think of between us.

She raises her eyebrows, pressing her hands against the table between us and leaning toward me. "Did I nearly catch Mr. Monroe dropping an f-bomb?"

"No," I tell her flatly, eyeing an older woman with frizzy brown hair and nearly identical facial features behind her, and a blonde woman balanced on a scooter that looks closer to Noelle's age. Mom and sister, if I had to guess.

"Oh, is this the math teacher?" the blonde woman asks, scooting forward and nudging Noelle out of the way. "I'm Christina!" she says, holding her hand out to greet me. I shake it gently while one of the mathletes drops off a few cups of hot chocolate between us. "Noelle's told me so much about you!"

I raise my eyebrows as Noelle's cheeks turn pink. "Have you, now?"

"I mean, only the basics," she says, rolling her eyes. "Like, the fact that you're a math teacher. And I do community service with you."

"And that you look like Superman," Christina says.

" I did not say that," Noelle bites back. " Mom said that."

The older woman shrugs, taking a step forward to shake my hand too. "I'm Helen. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," I say.

And then fucking Delia pops up again.

"Nicky, honey, can you grab me two hot chocolates?"

My jaw ticks as I watch Noelle's face. Her eyes flash wide, and one eyebrow pops up as she turns to get a glimpse of the woman who took it upon herself to call me Nicky .

Excuse me while I barf.

"Nicky?" Noelle asks, her voice low.

"You call me that, I'll make sure you have enough community service that you can never leave this–what do you call it?–godforsaken town," I mutter to her, and her mouth pops open, a grin spreading across her face.

I ignore Delia, instead turning to the people waiting on Noelle's other side and passing out one cup after another.

"You hate her," Noelle says under her breath, leaning across the table between us.

I press my lips together, and that seems to be all the confirmation Noelle needs.

I hand her a cup of hot chocolate that she passes to her mom. "Oh, I can't wait to hear this story."

I shake my head. "No story."

I pass along the second cup, which she hands to her sister, and another for her, but she waves me off. "I can't. Too much sugar." And she raises an eyebrow as I pass it off to someone else in line. "Come on, tell me the story."

"There really isn't one."

She nods. "Well, I'm not sure she's gotten the memo."

"Despite my best efforts."

"Want me to spill a hot chocolate on her?"

I pause, my brow crinkling. "Are you kidding me? I think you'd get a lot worse than community service for that."

She shrugs. "Honestly, I was trying to get a gauge on how much you don't like her. Want me to egg her house? That's right in my wheelhouse." She pauses. "Although you'd probably end up stuck with me for another installment of community service."

She eyes me like she's baiting me to react.

"As much as I love the torture, maybe it's best to refrain."

She nods, her eyes narrowed. "Well, you let me know."

"I'll keep your number in my phone in case I ever need a professional egg-thrower."

She grins. "I always knew I had a higher calling."

She holds my gaze for a moment, until her sister taps her shoulder. "Noelle! Dad!"

Christina is off like a rocket, scooting along across the pavement as her mom follows after her.

Noelle's face instantly drains of all color. She glances over her shoulder to where a man stands between two teenage girls, a wide smile on his face as Christina scoots toward him and envelops him in a big hug. Helen stands a respectful distance away, opting to nod while greeting the two teenagers next to him.

When I turn back to Noelle, she's...

Gone.

My brow crinkles, wondering where she could have disappeared to in the two seconds I was focused on her family.

And then I notice the edge of the table cloth is being tugged strangely. As if someone slipped underneath it and is doing their best to hide.

"Nicky? Those hot chocolates?"

I grab one of my mathletes as they zip past, and gesture to Delia. He gives me a firm nod, and while Delia's focused on the crowd around her, I take the opportunity to slip underneath the table, readjusting the table cloth as I come face to face with Noelle.

Her eyes are wide as I take a seat on the pavement across from her, nearly knocking my head on one of the table's supporting bars. Her arms are wrapped around her knees, making her look small. I, on the other hand, feel like a giant as I try to fold my limbs in any sort of comfortable way.

"This is my hiding spot," she tells me sternly.

"Well, this is my booth," I remind her.

"It's your mathletes' booth."

I purse my lips. She has a point there.

"Noelle, can you please share your hiding spot with me until she goes away?"

As if on cue, Delia calls for me. "Nicky?" she asks, the confusion clear in her voice.

Noelle grins. "What's up with the 'Nicky' business?"

I shake my head and lower my voice when I speak. "She's one of those parents. The kind that takes pride in being a thorn in your side because it's helping their child. She didn't help her daughter one bit. Only made the teachers dread her call. Hit on me endlessly, thinking it would get her daughter a better grade. And her daughter was smart –all she needed was for her mom to get out of her way."

She nods. "Sounds like she deserves an egging."

"Noelle!"

She scooches closer, her smile still wide across her face. She smells like roses and chocolate, and it makes me want to move closer, to stick my nose right in the corner of her neck and breathe her in.

"Really, I'd be happy to extend my services," she says.

I pause, wondering how serious she is. "Alright, sure. Why don't you go egg her house?"

She rears back. "What?"

Bluff called . "That's what I thought."

"Well–"

I shake my head. "I don't trust you to be a serious egg-thrower now. You faltered. I have no more faith in your egg-throwing abilities."

She huffs, but she can't stop the laughter jumping from her throat. "Nick!"

I shrug. "Confidence is the name of the game when throwing eggs, and I don't think you've got it."

She scrambles to her knees so she can crawl toward me and whacks me lightly on the shoulder. "Maybe I'll egg you ," she says. "From this distance, I bet I could get you right on the nose." She reaches out and pokes it.

I ignore the zip of heat that runs down my spine with the contact.

"With what eggs?" I press. "Unprepared." I make a tsking noise with my tongue while shaking my head. "Sorry, Noelle, I can no longer recommend your services to the rest of the neighborhood."

She laughs again, shaking her head. "Don't egg me on. I can figure out where you live."

I raise my eyebrows. "Wow, the threats are getting real now. Do I need to call Hank to arrest the criminal again?"

She purses her lips as she glares at me. "Maybe I'll give you a pass this time."

And then we hear it again. "Nicky?" from somewhere above us.

I shake my head, pushing my glasses up into my hair so I can run my hands over my face. "God, what is wrong with this woman?"

When I put my glasses back on, Noelle is staring at me, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. "You okay?"

She blinks and averts her gaze. "Yeah."

I sigh. "I guess I'm going to have to face her at some point."

"She really annoys you, doesn't she?" Noelle asks.

I nod. "And it really fucking sucks because she hides behind these big smiles and nice words and has everybody fooled. And if I don't like the former president of the PTA, I'm the asshole. God forbid I tell anyone she shamelessly threw herself at me last year in a completely unneeded attempt to get her daughter's grade raised. I can only imagine how that would turn out."

Noelle purses her lips. "I'm sorry."

I shrug and shake my head. "I'm overreacting. I don't have to see her anymore aside from town events. It's a non-issue."

Noelle reaches out, resting one hand on my arm to stop me from scrambling out from under the table yet. "Maybe we can make her think you're no longer available."

I raise my eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

She bites her lip as she reaches for my hair, running her fingers through it. She pushes on one side of my glasses so they're lopsided.

"Can I touch you?" she asks.

My blood freezes in my veins. Because fuck yes but no no no .

"Like, put my arm around your waist?" she clarifies.

I clear my throat, desperately trying to will away the images that flew through my mind when she asked if she could touch me . "Yeah."

She musses her own hair, pinches her cheeks, and scratches at part of her neck.

"What are you doing?"

She shrugs. "Beard burn," she explains.

My mouth goes dry at the thought. Some sort of caveman instinct flows through me, and I suddenly have no thoughts in my head other than tearing her hand away from her neck and making that real .

She reaches for me and pinches my cheeks, and I feel the urge to grab her by the hips, tug her legs around me, and kiss her.

No one can see us right now.

She lets out a quick breath. "Ready?"

No. I nod.

"You go first and pull me up," I say.

"What?"

"Just go," she says, picking up the tablecloth with a flourish and grabbing onto my hand when I propel out of there.

I pull her up behind me, and we nearly bowl over a mathlete with a cup of hot chocolate who only raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn't comment.

When I turn back to the line out front, Delia is still there. She has a cup of hot chocolate in her hand, so I can only assume she was just waiting for me to turn up again.

Noelle slips her arm around my waist, delicate but strong, and when I glance down at her, she's grinning at me like she got away with egging somebody's house. "Oopsie," she says, giggling as she leans in close to me. She rests her chin on my shoulder, turning slightly away from Delia and lowering her voice. "You know, this would be a good time to pretend you like me."

I swallow, clicking back into the plan, and clamp my arm tight around her. She nods subtly, like she approves, and I take the opportunity to run my other hand through her hair.

Her eyes widen as she leans into the touch.

And I think I might be addicted to it.

I let my hand fall to her neck, resting in the crook there while she looks up at me. I brush my thumb along the line of her jaw as her lips part slightly.

It feels like I should kiss her.

"I think it worked," she murmurs, breaking our spell.

When I glance back at the line, Delia is gone.

But I don't want to remove my hand from Noelle's neck. Or the arm from around her shoulders.

She reaches up, her hand covering mine, and squeezes.

When she sighs, I feel it deep in my abdomen.

It takes every ounce of willpower to remove my hands from this woman.

When I do, it's like her skin has seared me. My thigh, where her hip pressed against me. My waist where she tugged on me. The skin of her neck on my hands.

Every part of me where she was is now on fire.

And she only smiles as she tugs on my hand, pulling me out of the booth.