Page 16 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“Oh.”

“I told Tank we’d text him when you got up. He’ll come back to give us an official tour and answer questions whenever you’re ready. He said there’s no rush.”

So, Case isn’t trying to sabotage me? I’m so unsure what to think.

“You like football?” I ask, because it’s another surprising fact.

“We live in Texas. Liking football is required for residency.”

“Yeah, but …” I trail off because I don’t know what I want to say.

“Do I have some kind of anti-football look?”

“You’re just so … refined. You know, with the fancy suits and the whole vibe.”

“Vibe?” He raises his brows slowly.

“I really shouldn’t hold conversations before coffee.”

“Or maybe before coffee is when you speak your truth. Tell me, Jillian, what is my vibe?”

I can’t exactly tell the man his vibe is like the Wizard of Oz, only instead of being great and terrible, he’s hot and terrible. Or, at least, hot and confusing. I have NO idea what’s behind his curtain.

When I add four creamers to my coffee and take a sip without answering, Case backs toward the door. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll assume you think I’ve got a totally amazing vibe. Epic.”

I snort, almost inhaling coffee. “You know what they say about assuming.”

He grins, those dimples flashing like flares used at airports to guide planes down a runway. Except in this analogy, I’m the plane. And I’m crashing.

“I’ll be out here whenever you’re ready. Take your time.”

Another thank you is on my lips when the door closes, leaving me alone with my confusion and a totally perfect breakfast.

* * *

I wait until we've seen all of downtown Sheet Cake, and Tank has walked away to take a phone call before I say what I’ve been wanting to say all morning.

“Back to this, huh?” I ask as Case and I walk up the gazebo steps together. Or, should I say, Case and I and Case’s phone.

He glances up. “Back to what?”

“You being glued to your phone.”

I lean closer to Case, pretending I’m trying to look at the screen. I’m not actually looking—that would be a huge violation of privacy I’d usually never consider. Usually. Mostly. Probably.

He clicks the phone off, sliding it into his coat pocket.

“Sorry,” he says.

The tips of Case’s ears slowly warm up to a bright and festive pink, and he can’t meet my eyes. Jealousy is a hot wave, hitting me with sudden force and leaving my hands trembling. I shove them deeper into my coat pockets.

“Oh … you’re talking to a girlfriend?”

He glares. “No.”

“Fiancée?”

“No.”

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