Kitty Valentine Dates Santa Read online

  The mention of Noah makes me perk up a bit, and I’m starting to wonder what he’s actually like.

  I nod my head at Ms. Adams, giving her a smile because, all of a sudden, she has stopped talking and is staring at me.

  “All right then,” she says, getting up. “I will give you a quick tour and then have you on your way to the shop.”

  I stand up, following her out of the office and into the hallway. As she leads me down it, I find lockers, noticing that the aged facade has transitioned into a clean and modern school.

  “If you follow this hallway, it takes you to our sporting facilities.” Ms. Adams points and then continues walking. “In front of us is the common room, and over there is the lunchroom. Everyone in your year attends lunch at the same time.”

  I try to get a peek inside, but all of the lights are switched off, and I end up looking at my reflection in the glass.

  “If you follow this hallway, you will find your locker at the end as well as most of the classrooms. This stairwell here will take you up to the first through third floors. If you go through those doors”—she points again—“there is a connected building, housing the nurse, teachers’ offices, and such. If you continue past that, you’ll find the building for our younger students, but the majority of your time will be spent here.”

  I try to take in all of the information, feeling slightly turned around. I’m silently grateful for the map included in my packet. I follow behind her until we’re standing in front of the school shop.

  “You’re allowed to wear skirts, shorts, or trousers. If you wear skirts or shorts, black tights are required to be worn underneath them. Every day, you need to be in a white button-up, but you may add one of the school jumpers if you’re chilly. Black shoes are mandatory.” She nods to herself as I look over the clothes, not impressed by their fabric choices or design, not to mention the overuse of navy and red.

  “Oh, and please come back to my office on Tuesday morning before classes start and let me know which sport you will be participating in. We can then get you set up for it that afternoon.”

  “Okay,” I reply, taking the packet that she hands to me.

  “Mr. Hughes,” she calls out, causing a man to pop his head out into the shop from an office.

  “Ms. Adams.” He smiles, moving toward us at a snail’s pace.

  “Please see to it that Miss James is prepared for her first day of classes tomorrow.” She gives him a warm smile, and I’m starting to wonder if she just doesn’t like me or if she is more friendly to people she knows.

  “Very well.” He nods, taking my elbow and leading me to a section full of skirts and pants.

  The patterns are classic, and the shirts are plain, but I manage to collect a pile of clothing, adding in some sweaters—or should I say, jumpers—and tights, like she instructed.

  Mr. Hughes smiles as he folds the clothing. “We will have this delivered by evening’s end,” he tells me, and then I’m free to go.

  I take in the fresh air again, feeling the weight of my new schedule and the school rules heavy in my hand.

  As I make my way off campus, I decide to go to one of the cafés that Helen recommended. It’s still light out, and having a little me time before going back to the house sounds nice. It’s my last moment of freedom where I can still pretend tomorrow isn’t happening.

  I peek through the window and decide against it. It looks nice, but it’s quiet and small.

  And right now, I don’t want that.

  I want the distraction of people. I want noise and chatter to drown out my thoughts.

  I walk a little farther and find the perfect place—The Queens Arms. I go into the pub, quickly absorbing the vibe coming from within it. The place is packed. There are groups of men sitting at tables, couples at the bar, parties of friends all gathered together. Normally, I would hate sitting at the bar alone. I would hate not being out with, well, anyone. But this afternoon, I couldn’t be more thankful for it. Because for the next three weeks, I’m never going to be alone.

  Back home, my dad’s always at work. Mom is out in the city, at some function or another. It’s normally just me. We do dinners together, but that’s about it. Sometimes, we will go to the park over the weekend or out for brunch, but they’re typically planned events. Planned time. And I already know from the warmth of the Williams’ home that it is lived in. That they spend a lot of family time there together.

  I smile at the bartender and order a cider. He looks me over, and I half-wonder if he’s going to ask for my ID, but he simply pulls out a pint glass and turns on the tap. I try not to let out a visible sigh of relief as he sets the pint onto the bar. I pay him and then look around, trying to find an open table.

  Or even an open seat.

  I walk farther into the pub and am struck by the thick wooden beams that match the wraparound bar. I squeeze past a group of men talking about an upcoming football match—which to the British, means soccer—and smile to myself. I finally spot an open seat farther down the bar that’s perfect.

  I sit down, take a few large gulps of cider, and enjoy the fruity taste lingering in my mouth.

  This is exactly what I needed. Time alone to relax and unwind.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a loud voice says from over my shoulder, causing me to roll my eyes.

  Honestly, can I not have just a minute to myself?

  “Miss?” I say, frustrated, turning toward the voice. I meet the gaze of a cute boy, whose blue eyes narrow in on me.

  “I have to ask you,” he says, “is that cider you’re drinking?”

  “Yeah. Why?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Why? Well, this matters a great deal actually, for two main reasons,” he says, grinning. His light-blue eyes are set against short blond hair, and he cocks his head at me.

  “Really?” I say, biting my lip so he isn’t encouraged by me smiling. “And why’s that?”

  “Well, firstly, cider is absolute shit, and it should be thrown out immediately,” he says seriously, moving in a little closer.

  I can smell beer on his breath, and I can already tell he’s one of those boys who likes putting on a show.

  “And if I won’t do that?” I question.

  “Well then,” he says, leaning on the bar and setting his pint down next to mine, “we’ve made it to my second point. Which is, if you’re going to drink cider—which, again, I point out is fucking terrible—then you must counteract it by not drinking it alone. So, here I stand before you, your moral support for the task.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me, obviously pleased with himself. And I can’t help but smile along with him.

  “Oh, I see. You’ve come to my rescue then?” I take another sip of the supposedly fucking terrible cider, which I’m actually enjoying.

  “I’m no knight in shining armor. The opposite really. I was hoping you’d rescue me. You see those lads over there?” he says, pointing over his shoulder to a table in the corner. A few guys are sitting around it, and at least a half-dozen empty pints decorate their table. “They’re a terrible time, and I was hoping you might take pity on me.” He pouts, giving me sad puppy-dog eyes.

  And I want to give in, but I know exactly what he’s doing.

  “You’re a charmer,” I admit, but I pull back a little.

  “And you aren’t having any part of it, are you?” he says, a laugh escaping his lips. His mood lightens, and he turns back to look at his friends.

  I take in his button-down shirt, how it’s rolled at the sleeves and how the top button is undone. This guy isn’t bulky, but he isn’t thin either. He’s the perfect combination of put together yet adorably undone.

  He looks like trouble.

  But he looks fun.

  And fun is exactly what I need right now.

  Read London Prep

 

 

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