Page 99 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
I shrug casually. “It was barely even a kiss. Our lips touched, and that was it. Seriously, everyone is making a big deal out of nothing.”
Max leans in. “I heard your eyes slowly opened after.”
“My eyes opened at a reasonable rate.”
“I also heard that you two stared at each other for a while once you broke apart.”
“Describea while.”
“I don’t know, like you were looking into each other’s souls,” Max answers.
I shake my head. “You need to stay out of the gossip—you’re starting to get all starry-eyed like the rest of them.”
“So are you denying that you looked into her soul?” Max asks, completely ignoring me.
I prop my hand on the counter and glare at my best friend. “I did not stare into her soul. I barely even looked into her eyes. There was mistletoe, people were watching, and we kissed. Lips barely touched. There was nothing magical about it. More clinical if you removed the twinkle lights, music playing in the background, and the cooing onlookers.”
“So what you’re telling me is that the kiss meant nothing.”
“It meant absolutely nothing,” I say, keeping my expression still.
“And you’re not thinking about the kiss a few days later.”
“It was forgettable,” I say.
“So the crush you had on her, it didn’t ramp up?”
“Jesus Christ, Max. No!” I shout and then grab my tote bag of ingredients. “If I learned one thing from that date, it’s that my childhood crush was just that, a childhood crush. There’s nothing going on between us, and there isn’t a future for anything else. When I say that date was a one and done thing…I mean it.”
“Hey, Cole,” Storee says in a greeting as I set our bags on the baking station next to hers.
Is her hair different?
It looks different.
Not that I’d notice something like that…although if I did, it’s not because I stared into her soul or anything. It just looks…oh, maybe it’s because she’s not wearing a winter hat. Sothat’sher forehead.
Nice.
I mean…no, not nice.
I don’t care what her forehead looks like.
It’s just a forehead.
There’s nothing nice about it. It’s bland. Boring.
“I can see your forehead,” I say in greeting.
“What do you mean you can see my forehead?” she says as her hand covers it.
Yeah, what do you mean, Cole?
“It’s uh, it’s there.” I point to her forehead.
“Yes, people usually have foreheads.”
“Well, good for you on growing it,” I say with a nod and then turn to my ingredients, feeling my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
