Christmas Criminal

9. Noelle

9

NOELLE

Thursday, December 12th

I s it a bad idea to hang onto Nick so that I don't have to see my dad for the first time since I egged his house?

Maybe.

But he desperately needed a way out of that booth, and I desperately needed some way to ensure my mom and sister didn't come and force me into a conversation with him.

He's here with his new family. He doesn't want anything to do with the old one.

So I tug Nick along, spying the parent who so shamelessly threw herself at him and beelining in the opposite direction.

"I probably should help the mathletes. It's kind of busy," he says, glancing over his shoulder.

"You were more in their way than you were helping them," I say, waving him off.

His brow crinkles. "That's not true. And they do technically need a faculty member present to call it a school fundraiser."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Nick, they're a bunch of mathletes. They're not going to get in trouble. Besides, while you were standing there talking to me , I caught at least three of them giving you dirty looks because you were holding up the line."

"Really? Oh man, I didn't realize I was in the way."

I slip my hand into his elbow, patting his arm. "It's okay, Mr. Monroe. One day we all become obsolete. You had a good run, but now you have to let your mathletes carry on without you."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not that overbearing."

I shrug. "Wasn't saying you were."

He's quiet for a second, and I look up at him. His eyes catch mine, and I get that flustered feeling you get when somebody looks at you a little deeper than surface level. Like by looking into your eyes, they can see everything that's going on in your mind.

"Thanks for saving me," he says.

I squeeze his elbow, the closest I can get to hugging him without actually hugging him. "You're welcome." I let out a long breath. "To be fair, you saved me too."

"Still not talking to your dad?"

I shake my head.

"I'm honestly kind of surprised you're not rubbing it in his face. Like, 'look what I did because you're such a jerk, Dad,'" he mocks.

I roll my eyes. "I don't know. I feel like it's not worth it. Christina forgives him for anything because she has some insane notion that being family means you always forgive each other. My mom goes along with it to make her happy, even though I know he makes her stomach churn. But me? I spent high school in hell and I don't feel like going back there. I don't spend a single moment of my life dealing with anyone who makes me feel less than. If Christina wants to give and give and give, and that makes her happy, then I will support her. But I'll do so from a distance." I shrug. "And if I'm being totally honest, I can count on one hand the times he's made a real effort. And I don't forgive that quickly."

Nick nods, squeezing my hand in his elbow. "Good for you," he says, giving me a quick nod. Not encouraging me to include him in family events because it's Christmas , like my sister. Not telling me it's water under the bridge. Not pointing out that he's learned his lesson–look how good a dad he is to his two new little girls.

"Thanks for not pushing me to ignore my feelings for the sake of the holiday," I say.

He shrugs. "Thanks for telling me." He's quiet for a second. "Maybe you should tell him, too."

I look up at him, desperate to know what's going on behind those brown eyes. He hasn't shrugged away from my touch or insisted on going back to his booth. He's walking with me... like a friend. One that I kind of want to see naked.

"Tell my dad that he's a big jerk face?"

"Maybe not in those exact words, but… it might be healing for you. I know you said the egg-throwing was a result of finally breaking, but maybe by not talking about things, you're holding tension that you can let go of in perhaps a less criminal way?"

"Is this your attempt to guard against recidivism?"

He rolls his eyes, laughing. "No. I'm just thinking about that little story you told me about eating lunch in the library. Talking about it didn't change the experience, but I got the feeling you were able to find some peace with it. Maybe telling your dad what's what, instead of egging his house, can do the same thing."

I purse my lips. "Maybe. But then I'd have to talk to him."

He nods. "Yes, you would have to talk to him. But sometimes speaking your truth can give you some relief. No need to hide under tables anymore because talking to him no longer equates to hiding your feelings. And who knows, maybe some accountability would be good for him."

I scoff. "Yeah, I don't think he's listened to a word I've said in my life."

Nick hums. "Sounds like a great way to raise a daughter who thinks egg-throwing solves problems faster than communicating."

I turn to look at him, my best glare plastered across my face.

"I'm going to shut up now." He pauses. "But I'm also going to rest easy because I've said my piece, and if you don't want to listen, that's fine."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He takes a deep breath, letting out an overdramatic ahh . "What a beautiful night to have freed myself from the stress of holding onto something I should have just said."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "Point taken. I'll think about it."

"Think about it or don't, it's up to you. I'm just very happy to have said it."

I roll my eyes. "Very subtle."

When I look up at him, he's grinning again.

And as much as I don't want to think about all of the wonderful childhood trauma that causes me to throw eggs at my dad's house instead of speaking my truth, I just… can't help but smile right back at him.

"How'd you learn to be such a good communicator, Saint Nick?"

He shrugs. "I wouldn't say I'm always good at communicating. I mean, sometimes I really suck at it."

I cock my head to the side. "How so?"

He shakes his head. "I've been told I'm emotionless at times. Which isn't true. But I can see how the way I work sometimes gives that impression. I'll say something before I let myself get truly upset about it. And when someone tells me they're upset, I don't really react. I just try to figure out a solution. Everyone has emotions, but some people show them very differently."

I nod, detecting a hint of defensiveness in his words. "I see your emotions."

He raises his eyebrows. "You see my emotions?" he asks, deadpan.

I nod. "Yeah. In the way you push your glasses onto your head and run your hand over your face. When you grin, sometimes it reaches your eyes and they go all squinty, but sometimes you kind of raise an eyebrow a little bit. Just the littlest bit, and it's somewhere between happy and–"

He looks at me, making that exact face like he's daring me to say it. That that face is something different. An intense focus, coupled with something like fascination.

I shrug, swallowing my words. "I don't know. It's an emotion that feels uniquely you."

He nods. "Guess I should restrain myself a bit, huh?"

I laugh. Because yes, he is on the stoic side. But there's no doubt in my head he's full of all sorts of emotions. I see them running so subtly across his face.

I shake my head. "Don't you do that. You're perfect just as you are."

He laughs, and this grin reaches his eyes. "Okay, well, no need to lie to me."

"What? I'm serious. Sometimes I feel big emotions and I go too far. Sometimes you feel big emotions and others still have to search them out. Both are okay."

He gives me a quick nod. "As long as the former doesn't result in any egging."

I roll my eyes, knocking him on the shoulder, and decide this is probably enough emotion talk for the day. Or else I'm going to end up pantsless and pawing at him because there is something about the way this man insists that he has emotions that makes my heart swell.

Fuck whoever made him feel self-conscious about that.

If I only had an egg…

"So I take it you don't have much family drama around the holidays, Saint Nick?"

He shakes his head, looking out over the crowd as we weave between people. "Nah, I don't."

"Not even a little? Nothing you have to talk very calmly about?" I ask, and as we skirt around a group of kids creating a bottleneck in foot traffic, we turn toward each other to squeeze by. Our coats swish past each other, but I swear I can feel his heat through the fabric.

"I don't really have much family."

"Oh." I keep my hand on his elbow as the walkway opens up. Some part of me feels like I need to hold onto him, keep him close. "So there's not much opportunity for drama, huh?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Pretty much zero possibility," he says.

He smiles when I glance up at him, and I can't help but overanalyze his words. Is he telling me he has no family?

"What do you normally do for the holidays?"

He shrugs. "Depends on the year. Usually... this."

I raise my eyebrows. "This, as in wander the Christmas fair with your community service gremlin on your arm?"

A laugh bursts out of him, and he shakes his head. "For the record, when I call you my community service gremlin, know that it's entirely your fault."

My laugh sneaks out despite my best attempt to suppress it. "Okay, that's fair."

He sighs, turning his attention out to the crowd again. "I usually do community stuff around the holidays. Participate in the fair or help the school with the winter play or the winter concert. I'm not picky," he says. He takes a long breath, and I stamp down every part of me that wants to start talking again because I can feel he's about to tell me something important. "My mom loved Christmas."

Loved.

I bite my tongue to stop the words from spilling out.

"And it makes me feel close to her, this time of the year, when I go out and do Christmas-y things around town. I technically have a dad somewhere, but he was never in my life, so it was always just me and my mom. When I was little, she would cart me around to any and all Christmas events she could find. She didn't always have the money to give us really big Christmases, but she always made sure we had some way to celebrate together. So now, this is how I celebrate with her."

A lump builds in my throat that I desperately try to swallow over. My lip trembles, and I bite it in an attempt to stop it.

My mom loves Christmas. My mom carted us around to all of the Christmas events. My mom still takes it upon herself to wrap a multitude of fruits and household items for Christmas morning because it was me and Christina's favorite thing to just rip the damn wrapping paper on Christmas morning.

He glances down at me, his brow furrowed, and starts laughing. "Careful, Noelle. You know what happens when gremlins get wet."

A laugh tumbles out of me at the same time as one little tear leaks out. I wipe it away before he notices. "I'm sorry. That's a really beautiful sentiment and now I feel bad about making fun of you for liking Christmas."

He shrugs. "You can still make fun of me. I deal with high schoolers all day–believe me, there's nothing you can say to me that I haven't heard before. Or heard worse."

I nod. "Well, I'm not going to make fun of you for liking Christmas anymore. I'll stick to the nerdy math teacher jokes."

He grins. "Now what sort of sob story can I come up with to make you feel bad about that? "

"Oh!" I knock into him lightly, and when he corrects course, he squeezes my hand in his elbow. As if to tell me he likes having it there.

And there go the butterflies, knocking around inside me again.

As we turn a corner to another long row of huts–several of which we set up–I spy someone I was really hoping I'd never have to see again.

I tense up, trying to turn and accidentally walking straight into Nick instead.

"You okay?" he asks, placing his hands on my shoulders.

"Louis Prince and Stacy Mann are apparently still together," I say under my breath, turning my head so they can't see me.

But then I hear his voice. "Noelle? Is that you?"

I press my eyes shut quickly, and when I open them, Nick is staring down at me, his eyes soft. He loops a bit of my hair around his thumb and lets it go as his fingers dig into my shoulders. "Test run, Noelle. Tell him how you feel," he says softly.

My words run on repeat in my head. All of the nights I've been up late, thinking about things I could have said to Louis Prince. All of the ways I wanted to put him in his place.

They all consisted of saying something different at the time, in that little alcove in the high school where we last spoke.

But I guess late is better than never .

I glance up at Nick as if he's some sort of safety net. He squeezes my shoulders. "He deserves to know that what he did had lasting effects. And even if he doesn't listen, you deserve to say it."

"I don't know."

"Don't feel pressured," he says, his fingers moving in small circles on my shoulders in the most distracting way. "But I think it might be cathartic for you."

He glances at them and then back at me.

"Do you want to pretend?" he asks, his hands moving down to my upper arms and squeezing.

I bite my lip. No, I don't want to pretend–I want it to be real . "Yeah."

He nods, taking a moment to run his fingers through my hair. His eyes follow the movement, his thumb brushing against my temple and continuing down until the strands fall flat against my coat. Goosebumps pop up along my skin that are thankfully hidden by my coat.

I think I could probably stay in this moment forever, his eyes on mine and his hands in my hair.

But he turns, throwing an arm around my shoulders, and tugs me into his side, that now familiar scent of s’mores infiltrating my senses.

I wrap my arm around his waist, and a second later, his lips brush against the side of my head.

The contact makes my breath catch, and I freeze in place, wishing he would stay right there, just like that.

But by the time I glance up at him, his attention has moved elsewhere. To the couple now standing in front of us, wide grins on their faces.

"Noelle, so nice to see you," Stacy says, and I begrudgingly look at her.

"Nice to see you, too," I say, even though the only thing I want to see is Nick's hands on me. His arm around my shoulder. I wish I could have a bird's eye view of this moment so I could see what we look like together. If this comfort I feel right now is visible from the outside. If we fit as well as it feels like we do.

"Glad to see you're doing well," Louis says, and I don't miss the way he throws an arm around Stacy's shoulder. Like he's mirroring us.

"Very well," I say. My eyes drift up to Nick's, and my heart stutters when he grins down at me.

I know it's all for show, but there's a little part of me that warms to this. Like maybe it doesn't have to be so fake.

"I don't think I've seen you since your last day of school," Louis says.

The last day of school where he met me in the alcove between lockers because he didn't want to risk our goodbye getting around to Stacy. Even though our goodbye amounted to no more than him, brow furrowed, telling me he was sad I was leaving but hoped we could remain on good terms.

As if he wasn't the reason I was leaving.

I, being the dumb high schooler I was, didn't chew him out the way I should have.

"Yeah. After you started spreading rumors that I had an STD, high school wasn't a very fun place anymore."

Nick snorts. Stacy's mouth drops open. Louis's face turns a truly delightful shade of crimson.

"I hope you know I didn't mean for that to happen. And I mean, it was so long ago..."

I stare at him, swallowing down every inclination in me that's telling me to run and find somewhere to hide. To take back my words or laugh them off with a joke.

"It was just a picture," he says.

I wait a moment before speaking. "Well, what was to you a picture, was the end of high school for me." I glance at Stacy. "I'm happy you're happy together." I turn back to Louis. "But I'm more happy that I learned who you are before I ended up stuck with you."

I glance at Nick, who nods subtly at me. Like he's proud of me.

And I beam back at him.

I want him to be proud of me. I want him to look at me like this, all the time.

He knows the story, but he doesn't trulyknow what I've been through. But he still looks at me like this moment has lit up his day.

It has me all sorts of gooey on the inside.

Nick tugs me closer, leaving a kiss on my forehead that has me jumping out of my skin.

He turns to Louis. "I hope one day you learn how to take accountability for your actions."

And if I know Nick as well as I think I do, that was his version of egging Louis Prince's house.

He nods once, quickly, and then steers us around the suddenly silent couple. Ahead of us is only a parking lot–Stacy and Louis must have just arrived–but we continue regardless.

We walk a few paces before his arm tightens around me, surrounded by only cars and the distant sound of Christmas music playing through the town square speakers.

"How did that feel?" he asks, his voice low in my ear as our pace slows. I recognize Nick’s car as we stop and he leans casually against one side. He makes no move to get in, and I find myself wondering if we were both just looking for a quieter place to exist with one another, where children aren’t screaming all around us and Christmas music isn’t on blast.

I turn to him, a grin spreading across my face. "To be totally honest, I have this feeling in my gut like I went too far. I get that, sometimes, when I stand up for myself. But my life was impacted significantly because of something he did, and yes, it was many years ago, but it felt good to say it. To put the onus on him for being the asshole, instead of myself for keeping quiet and pretending like it doesn't still hurt sometimes."

Nick puts his hands on my shoulders again, his fingers running through my hair. "You did good, Noelle."

"Yeah?"

He nods, and I can't fight the pull to him anymore. I crash into his chest, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him tight. His arms wrap around my neck a moment later.

"I'm glad you were finally able to tell off the dickhead."

I laugh into his chest, nuzzling into him where his coat is unzipped.

He tightens around me, swaying slightly, and when I look up at him, he only stares me down, a slight smile on his face as his fingers drift through my hair.

And something about the way he's holding me, looking at me so gently, makes me stand on my toes, my lips brushing hesitantly across his jaw. I pause afterward, gauging his reaction, but he seems almost stunned.

His eyes search my face, his fingers still moving through my hair in a way that sends little tingles flying across my scalp.

And then he leans down and kisses me so lightly that I might actually start drifting through the air and fly away.

I grab at him, fisting his shirt in my hand and pressing my lips against his. A moan escapes me, betraying the warmth building in my abdomen. I press myself against him as his fingers move up higher in my hair, resting on the back of my head and pulling me closer. His other hand dips beneath my coat, his fingers impossibly warm on the small of my back.

A strangled sound escapes him as he twists us, pressing me up against the car. His lips move against mine, our delicate touch morphing into something more primal. He licks at the seam of my lips and his tongue enters my mouth, tangling with mine in a way that has me two seconds from dropping to my knees and freeing him from his jeans. My leg lifts, my heel finding the back of his leg and tugging him closer.

I'm desperate to feel him.

"Noelle," he mutters against my lips, his kiss slowing our frenzy.

"Nick," I say, and it comes out sounding like a moan.

"Noelle," he repeats, his mouth moving to my cheek, his lips brushing against the skin of my neck. "We can't."

I nod. "Right," I say, grabbing hold of his chin and pulling his mouth back to mine. "We can't."

He kisses me forcefully. Intentionally. He has me pinned against the car, his lips moving against mine as my hips search for friction. He makes a guttural noise deep in his throat as I dig my fingers into his neck, keeping him close.

"Noelle," he says, his voice sharp as he pulls away. He takes a step back, but rests his hands on the car on either side of me. His hair is all sorts of wild, his glasses askew. The dim light emanating from the fair casts one side of his face in shadow, like a hint of the caveman underneath the math teacher persona is showing through.

Because of me. I'm pulling out the man underneath it all. His weakness or his poison, I'm not sure.

But I love this side of him.

I run my hands along his strong chest, my hands dipping beneath his coat.

"Community service is fake anyway," I say, brushing my lips along the edge of his jaw.

"You're taking it seriously," he says.

I shrug. "I told my mom I'd go through with it. That's not really taking it seriously. "

He gives me a flat look. "Hank is taking it seriously."

"Because he's in my mom's pocket. Or she's in his."

"If everyone else is taking it seriously, I need to take it seriously, too."

He seems resolute. And as much as I want to think I can change his mind, I kind of like that when he makes a commitment, he follows through with it.

"What about after?" I ask.

His head drops as he rests one hand on my hip, his eyes following the motion as his fingers dip beneath my coat.

His thumb rubs a small circle into my skin and every particle of my being focuses on that contact.

He looks up at me, his eyes finding mine. "After would be okay."

I nod, my hands trailing along his jaw, his neck, the thick muscles underneath his shirt that I'm desperate to kiss. I press my lips against his jaw. "And maybe one more to hold us over?"

His hand shoots to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he kisses me harshly. His tongue winds into my mouth, his breath running warm across my cheeks as he holds me against him.

When we break apart, he tugs my head into the crook of his neck, his arms strong around me. "How many hours do you have left?"

I laugh as his hands roam my body, groping at my ass and finding my waist underneath my coat. "Who's being tortured more here, me or you?"

His laugh is deep, more of a grumble than a laugh. "Seriously, Noelle. How long do I have to wait?"

His words send a rush of heat through my body as I imagine what it would feel like to truly be touched by him. He's an unassuming math teacher on the outside, complete with his little Clark Kent glasses, but the way he grabbed me was rough. Like he knows how to touch a woman.

"I think I have twenty hours left. Ish."

"Are you here for the weekend?" he asks, his lips brushing against the skin of my neck in a way that has each of my muscles taut, ready to pounce on him.

I nod.

"So in theory, you could be done Sunday."

"I mean, if you think you can come up with enough community service activities to fill up twenty hours over one weekend , sure. But that's a lot. And you were already running out of ideas."

He shrugs, nipping lightly at the skin of my neck. "Maybe I'll have you sit there for twenty hours so I can stare at you."

"That doesn't sound like it serves the community."

"It serves me," he offers, and something about that sounds deliciously naughty.

"Just say the word," I say, my hand running through his hair as his lips leave goosebumps along my skin.

He groans. "You can't say things like that, Noelle."

He steps away from me, taking his glasses off with one hand and running his other through his hair. He looks disheveled, a little tortured.

All because of me.

"Sorry," I say.

"Twenty hours," he says, putting his glasses back on.

I nod in agreement. "Twenty hours."

He gives me one last kiss, his fingers digging into my skin and a groan slipping from his throat.