The Candy Cane Kiss: Briarwood High Series

by Dallen, Maggie

  It seemed like Lucas was reading my mind. “I should probably be taking notes, huh?”

  I glanced up to see him still focused on the screen. He looked doubtful. “Is this the kind of dancing you expect me to do?”

  I followed his gaze and let out a snort of amusement. I couldn’t help it. The thought of big, brawny, too-cool-for-school Lucas doing the kind of graceful tap dancing that Gene Kelly was currently doing? “No,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “Swing dancing is nothing like tap dancing. And besides, you don’t even have to dance. Not really.”

  He was watching me, I could feel his gaze on me, but it was Grandpa who spoke. “You’re taking our boy here swing dancing?”

  I opened my mouth and paused. I didn’t know where to start. At what point exactly had Grandpa decided that Lucas was “our boy?” And also, no. Just no. I could see where Grandpa was going with this and while I hadn’t wanted to explain our little arrangement in front of Lucas before, it suddenly seemed imperative that I do so.

  “I thought that’s what I’d signed up for,” Lucas said, laughter tingeing his voice and making it impossible for me to keep focused on my grandfather. “But now I’m learning that your granddaughter doesn’t actually want to be seen with me, she just needs me for my ride.”

  I glanced at Grandpa and tried to will him into silence. He knew very well that if I really needed a ride I could get one. It had never stopped me before. But there was little more intimidating than walking into a crowd of couples as a single. Not romantic couples, necessarily, but dancing partners. In my experience, dancers were eager to pair up with new partners at these sort of social events, but coming in alone? That was a big no-no. A solo newcomer brought nothing to the table.

  “Are you embarrassed by my moves?” Lucas teased, doing a weird sort of sitting groove motion that was so uncool it made me burst out laughing. I hadn’t known the almighty Lucas could do something dorky like that in the name of a joke.

  But he was laughing too, and then Grandpa had us both cracking up as he did his own seated dance, which looked more like a convulsion than an actual dance.

  “What was that?” I asked through my laughter.

  “They call it the worm,” Grandpa said with haughty dignity.

  When visiting hours finally came to an end, I was more surprised than anyone to realize that I’d actually had fun.

  With Lucas.

  With Lucas and my grandfather. Not exactly a normal way to pass the afternoon, but it hadn’t been unpleasant once the initial awkwardness had passed.

  “I’d better get back to my room,” Lucas said as I stood to leave. “Walk me back?”

  I glanced up in surprise. “Me?”

  He ignored that, thank God.

  No, I meant Grandpa. Get out of that wheelchair, Pops, you’re escorting me back to my wing.

  That’s what he could have said. What he should have said. I tried to recover quickly. “Yeah, sure,” I said, hurrying out the door so I wouldn’t have to meet Grandpa’s eyes. Lord knew what kind of not-at-all-subtle looks he’d be trying to send me from behind Lucas’s back.

  I almost hated that I’d have to break it to him that all this was for show.

  But I would. I couldn’t keep secrets from Grandpa. It was one thing to let my mother believe I had a friend—a friend who was popular and cute and taking me to his family’s formal Christmas event. But Grandpa?

  No way.

  The trip back to his room wasn’t quite as awkward as the walk there, but it came pretty close. Lucas was oddly silent. I might not have known him well, but I was starting to know him.

  He wasn’t a silent guy. He was cocky and confident and loved to tease and mock. Putting people on edge or pushing the boundaries made his eyes light up and his body hum with energy.

  These were the kind of things I wished I didn’t know about Lucas. It made his teasing and his cockiness almost…endearing.

  God help me. I so did not want to find Lucas Carlson endearing.

  It wasn’t until we reached his room that Lucas finally spoke. “So, this party…” He scratched at the back of his head. “It’s, uh, it’s formal.”

  I blinked up at him. “I know. You told me.”

  Maybe I was imagining things but I could have sworn we’d been over this already.

  I watched as his gaze dropped down to my dress, which I’d scored at a thrift store. It had lived in my closet’s ‘prime-selection section’ ever since. It was my go-to corner that held all my favorite dresses.

  I loved this dress. I loved the way it made me feel—sexy and sweet all at once. It was unique but timeless, old-fashioned but seductive. Older clothes made me feel that way, while modern clothes never had. Maybe it was my body type, but I just couldn’t pull off jeans and a pullover sweater. I might have been born in the twenty-first century but my body was meant for another era.

  Still, much as I loved this dress, and much as his obvious criticism irked me, I found myself sighing. “Don’t worry, Lucas, I won’t embarrass you.”

  “That’s not what I said,” he said quickly.

  “But it’s what you meant.”

  He didn’t try to deny it but his eyes searched mine. Maybe he was trying to sort out just how pissed I was at the implied insult.

  It didn’t make me happy, per se, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel angry either. If anything, I was resigned.

  “Look,” I said. “You and I both know I wouldn’t be your top choice for a date in any scenario.”

  He widened his eyes and his lips parted but I really didn’t want to hear any sort of lame denial.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Because I wouldn’t choose you either.”

  In fact, if I had any guy friends who could go with me to the swing dance night at the club, I’d have chosen them. I’d pretty much rather go with anyone than the one guy who would hate everything about the event, who would snicker and mock and think me even more ridiculous than he already did.

  But he was my only option. Just like I was his.

  He stared at me as if dumbfounded by what I’d said. I supposed it probably was a blow to that massive ego of his to know that he wasn’t someone’s first choice.

  But we weren’t talking about him and the dance event, we were talking about my presence at the party. A party that would be filled with people from his world—snobs; conformers; walking paper cutouts; living, breathing Barbie and Ken dolls.

  And I would definitely not fit in.

  But, it wasn’t like this would be my first time going to a party like this. I tilted my head to the side. “Did you know that I’m a military brat?”

  He blinked rapidly, likely sidelined by the non sequitur. “Uh…no?”

  “Well, I am. Or…I was.” The question nagged at me. Was I still considered a military brat if we no longer lived on base? Excellent question for the interwebs. I shook my head. I’d deal with that at another time. For right now, I was making a point.

  “Okay.” He drawled the word out, prompting me to continue.

  “I was constantly dragged to parties and events on bases where conformity was pretty much the name of the game.”

  He frowned at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

  I sighed. “What I’m trying to say is…” You and your friends are the ultimate example of peer pressure groupthink. No, that wouldn’t do. “What I’m trying to say is, I won’t embarrass you. I know how to fit in when need be.”

  He gave a little nod but his mouth was still tight with tension. He didn’t believe me.

  But he would.

  “Now,” I said briskly. “Shall we go over the terms of this arrangement before I head home?”

  I moved away from him to sort the paperbacks I’d brought for him to read in the order I’d want to read them. Mainly I just needed something to do with my hands, and something to focus on that wasn’t his intense scrutiny.

  “Sure,” he said, his tone far more lazy. I saw him sink into a chair in the corner out
of the corner of my eye. “Let’s start with PDA.”

  I froze. “What?”

  He shrugged. “How do you feel about PDA?”

  I straightened. “PDA,” I repeated. “As in kissing?”

  His lips tugged upward and I realized just how priggish I’d sounded. My nose had even wrinkled up in disgust as I’d said it, as if just the memory of our one and only kiss disgusted me.

  It didn’t. The memory made me uncomfortable; it made me warm; it made me want to squirm…but not out of disgust.

  He shrugged his one good shoulder. “As in kissing, as in holding hands, as in my arm around your shoulders, as in—”

  “I get the idea,” I said.

  He arched his brows. “Well?”

  Well, what? I almost stalled longer to keep from asking just that. Instead I cleared my throat. “That’s…acceptable.” I hoped I sounded natural. I said a prayer he couldn’t detect how supremely uncomfortable the idea made me.

  No boy had ever held my hand. No guy who wasn’t my grandfather or a gay dance partner had ever wrapped an arm around my shoulder. No one, aside from Lucas, had ever kissed me.

  All this was front of mind, but there was no need for Lucas to know the extent of my inexperience, though he could likely guess.

  But he wasn’t the only one here setting boundaries. I straightened further and faced him outright. “We need to set a timeframe.” I thought about it for a moment. “We need a definitive end date. How about New Year’s?”

  That seemed like a nice, symmetrical timeline.

  “Valentine’s Day,” he said decisively. “I mean, we can’t exactly break up instantly, can we? Not without causing suspicion.”

  I blinked at him. Valentine’s Day seemed ridiculously far away. “But, isn’t that far away?”

  He shrugged again as if the answer were obvious. “How am I going to explain that I’m going to a dance with you if we’re not together.”

  I opened my mouth but stopped. The next swing dance weekend wasn’t until the weekend after New Year’s. I hadn’t really thought that through. “We could keep it a secret?” I offered.

  He arched his brows in amused disbelief. “At Briarwood? I hate to break it to you, Dolly, but I’m kind of a big deal in our school. People watch my every move.”

  I frowned at his use of my stupid nickname, and I wrinkled my nose at what he’d said. “That’s disturbing.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin that took my breath away as he let out a genuine sound of amusement. I wouldn’t go so far as to say a laugh, it was more like a rumbling sound of enjoyment. “You’d better get used to it. Word is already out that we’re a couple so you’re in the spotlight too.”

  I stared, not sure what to say to that. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure how to feel about that. I’d never been in the spotlight before, outside of a dance competition…but that was different.

  I’d never been noticed at school. Despite my weird style of dress, or maybe because of of it, people tended not to notice me. They gave me a quick once-over, deemed me unfit to join in their reindeer games, and that was that.

  I’d never been truly bullied, but I’d also never been noticed.

  My stomach turned. Nope. I didn’t like the thought, not one bit.

  I drew in a deep breath as I tried to digest just how much my life would change by making this agreement. But then again, it was too late to back out now, wasn’t it? He’d said it himself, people already thought we were together.

  It was time to go big or go home. Embrace the new notoriety or try to sweep it under the rug and hope everyone would forget.

  The latter was tempting.

  Beyond tempting.

  I swallowed down the immediate sense of desperation as I tried to sort through his logic. Valentine’s Day just felt so ludicrously far off. If it was just a matter of us dancing together…

  “You probably don’t want people to know about the whole dancing thing, right?” I started to edge toward the door.

  He drew his brows down in confusion. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s…” I threw my hands up. Oh hell, just say it. “Because it’s lame. Right?”

  I hitched my brows up, awaiting somewhat hopefully his full agreement. I mean, I wasn’t completely out of touch. I knew normal girls didn’t spend their weekends learning and perfecting dance moves that were cool about a hundred years ago.

  He shrugged. “It’s not lame if I do it.”

  I stared at him and he looked…unfazed. He was serious.

  I’ll admit, I was gaping. “Excuse me?”

  He smirked. “I said, it’s not lame if I do it.” He crossed one leg over the other, perching an ankle on his knee. “I can make anything seem cool.”

  I gaped some more. And then I laughed. “Oh my God, you are so conceited.”

  His smirk only grew wider. “Don’t believe me?”

  There was that spark of challenge in his eyes, the one that made my belly tighten with nerves and awareness. “That wasn’t a challenge.”

  “Wasn’t it?” He shifted so he was leaning forward. “I can single-handedly make swing dancing cool, and I’ll prove it.”

  I wanted to protest but I couldn’t. His gaze was locked on mine and it was impossible to look away. Did he mean he’d make swing dancing cool…or me?

  I had a feeling he meant the latter but I was afraid to ask. Why? I didn’t know. Something in me ached at the thought of it, and something else recoiled at the idea.

  But it didn’t matter, because no matter what Lucas did or did not do—I would not be cool. At the end of the day, I was who I was. And though I might be able to fit in at a holiday party, I’d be chafing by the end of the night.

  The truth was, I had a freak flag and I had to let it fly.

  I found myself not just meeting his gaze, but matching his look of challenge. He thought he could single-handedly make me cool with his crazy popularity?

  Ha! Good luck.

  I’d live up to my end of the bargain and fit in at the party, but after that I wasn’t hiding who I was…not for him, and not for anybody.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucas

  Lola’s mother greeted me at the door. By her look of surprise, I was not who she was expecting. I guess when Lola told her she had a friend, she hadn’t expected a hot-as-hell six-foot-tall football player.

  Lola was right when she’d said I was conceited. But really, I had a mirror. I saw the way girls looked at me, and I worked hard for this body. The face? That was all thanks to genetics.

  Once her surprise faded, Lola’s mom gave me the tolerant sort of smile all the older women always gave me. “Lola will be down in a minute.”

  She didn’t stop staring at me as we stood there making idle chit-chat about the party tonight and Lola’s curfew and how Lola and I met. Her mother looked flushed with happiness as she offered me food while we waited on Lola. I got the feeling she didn’t quite believe that this was real.

  Smart woman.

  But she desperately wanted to.

  I felt a surge of something close to pity, not necessarily for this woman but for the whole situation. The fact that a guy—any guy—showing up on their doorstep was such a rarity. The fact that Lola had to lie about having a friend.

  Of course, was that really any more pathetic than me lying about having a girlfriend?

  The point was arguable.

  But this was all part of the deal. I’d come to pick her up, even though the party was at my house. Partly because she didn’t have a car, but mainly to prove to her mother that she had a friend.

  We both stopped with the ridiculously feeble small talk when Lola appeared in the doorway.

  “Oh Lola, sweetie, you look beautiful,” her mother breathed, one hand going over her heart.

  I didn’t say anything.

  I couldn’t.

  Lola’s mother had done her daughter an injustice. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe the way she looked.

  Her dark hair was stil
l wavy, but not set in the usual retro curls. It fell in long, thick locks around her shoulders with only a thin rhinestone clip keeping it out of her face. Her eyes were clear and wide, and not hidden behind glasses. Her skin glowed, her hair shone, and her lips were a muted shade of pink that made her look utterly soft and touchable.

  Her dress was…well, maybe not normal. But it was timeless. Deep red, the gown hugged her curves before flowing to her feet. The neckline wasn’t daring, but it was suggestive. Or maybe that was just me. It had a sort of heart-shaped edge that was at once girlie and demure, while also revealing just a hint of that delectable cleavage.

  In short, she was perfection. Hovering there with those big brown eyes and cute little heels, she was the epitome of elegance and grace and femininity.

  But I couldn’t put any of that into words because my mouth had gone dry and my throat was too tight to form words.

  “You ready to go?” she asked, picking up a clutch purse from the kitchen table and apparently not noticing that she’d stunned me stupid.

  I nodded and followed her toward the door.

  It wasn’t until we were outside and I’d helped her into the passenger side of my car that I managed to find my voice. “You clean up good, Candy Cane.”

  She smirked up at me, but ignored the compliment. “Candy cane?”

  It had just sort of slipped out, not because it was Christmas Eve, and not because she was wearing red and her skin glowed white in contrast. No, my traitorous mind had taken one look at her lips and had remembered the way she’d tasted in vivid detail.

  She’d tasted like candy canes—sweet, and refreshing, and utterly unforgettable.

  Lola glanced down at her dress. “You’ll note that I opted not to wear the red-and-white striped tights this evening.”

  I grinned at the memory of those atrocious things and did my best not to leer at said legs. “Eyes everywhere thank you for your sacrifice.” Then I finally managed to say something of what I was thinking. “You look beautiful.”

  She gave a half shrug and echoed my words. “I clean up all right.”

  I laughed at the understatement and tugged at the edge of my suit coat. “Ahem.”