Page 15 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

I barely have time to sit up, pulling the covers to my chin in order to hide my bralessness, when the door opens. Case sweeps inside with a wooden breakfast tray. It’s the kind I’ve only ever seen in movies, with little legs on either side so it can rest over your lap in bed.

Was the tray here in the minimally furnished loft? Other than the most basic furnishings, the loft is pretty empty. Case wouldn’t have brought a breakfast tray in his suitcase, would he?

Without making eye contact, Case walks it over and sets it in place on my lap, then steps back, crossing his arms. I stare down at the mug of coffee and a full breakfast plate with bacon, eggs, toast, and grits. There’s also a tiny mountain of creamers by the silverware.

“I noticed how much cream you put in your coffee last night,” Case says.

He did?

“And you seemed to enjoy Big Mo’s grits.”

That one was a little more obvious. When I took my first bite of grits last night, I moaned so loudly, Case spilled his water.

“Wow. Thanks? I, uh, didn’t get you anything.”

For the first time, I glance over at Case. In the morning light filtering through the windows, he looks different. It’s not just the button-down shirt with NO TIE, paired with dark jeans and no shoes—though this is the most casual I’ve ever seen him. It’s more that his body language and his expression are totally unfamiliar.

He seems … nervous? It’s kind of adorable. Not a word I ever thought I’d use for the man voted most likely to intimidate others to death in our office. (Okay, so there was no official vote. But if there were, Case would win.)

“I picked it up while having breakfast with Tank.”

Forget that—I read him TOTALLY wrong. It’s not nerves I see on his face. It’s guilt at having breakfast with Tank without me. Which is not adorable at all.

I’m the one who set up this trip. I’m the one who was supposed to meet with Tank today. Not Case.

I’d love to enjoy this dressed down version of him, the one who brings me a perfect breakfast in bed. The man who talked all through dinner, asking me questions about my degree, my family, my hobbies. We even got so intimate as to share our favorite movies.

His: Braveheart.

Which started an argument about stereotypical guy movies.

Mine: The Dark Knight Rises.

Which started an argument about DC versus Marvel. I’ll never admit to Case that I don’t actually like either one. I just happen to like Christian Bale and Christopher Nolan. I had too much fun watching Case get riled up defending his beloved Marvel.

Because Case has a thing for comic books, apparently. And has even been to Comic-Con. Twice.

Color me shocked.

Anyway. Forget that version of Case who was open and friendly. Questionably flirty at times. Obviously, he’s just trying to lull me into a false sense of security while he steals the credit for my awesome idea.

“He stopped by while you were still sleeping,” Case continues.

“And you didn’t think to wake me up?”

I want to stomp out of bed, but my sleep shorts feel like a completely indecent length to walk around in front of Case. He doesn’t deserve to see my legs. Especially when they’re arguably my best feature.

“I thought after our late night you might want to sleep in,” he says with a little frown, obviously picking up on the fact that I’m about to explode. “Your light was on late.”

Was he checking on me? Or maybe … thinking about knocking late at night?

Doesn’t matter! Focus!

“You thought I wouldn’t mind missing the meeting I set up on this trip that I arranged?”

Case takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t a meeting per se. Tank and I talked about football. My dad is a huge fan. I followed his sons’ careers. I’ve got a signed Collin Graham jersey hanging on my wall at home.”

I file that little bit of trivia away with the other things I’ve learned.

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