Page 17 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“Wife? I mean, you don’t wear a ring but—”

“I am unattached.”

I snort. “Unattached, huh? That sounds very fancy and official.”

We stop inside the gazebo and sit down on a little wooden bench along the side. I expect Case to stick to the opposite side of the bench, but he sits right next to me, so close our thighs almost touch. The light dusting of snow from the night before has melted under the sun’s scrutiny, but it’s still cold. I tuck my head down into my scarf and coat like a turtle.

“Unattached is like the lesser of two evils. Single sounds so …”

“Beneath you?” I offer.

Case chuckles and shoots me a sideways glance. “No. It just sounds like teenager-speak.”

“So, I was right—it is beneath you.”

“Fine. Yes. Being single is beneath me. You’ve got me pegged, Jillian.” He bumps my shoulder with his, and the playful gesture is so surprising, I almost fall off the bench.

“Thank you. I am also unattached. Though I just call it single by choice.”

I’m not sure why I offer this up. But just like when I started talking to him about body heat, my mouth seems determined to steer the ship—right into deeply embarrassing waters.

“Why by choice?”

I shrug, staring out at the massive Christmas tree, imagining a scene just like this one in our movies. Except in the movie, the couple would be heading toward some kind of mistletoe kiss. And that is NOT happening here.

“I’ve had my fair share of bad experiences.” Aka: a laundry list of tropes gone terribly wrong.

“Or maybe you just haven’t found the right man,” he suggests.

“I’m not sure I believe in some kind of mythical ‘one.’”

Case looks at me with a tiny smile, like he knows I made quote fingers in my pocket.

“So, you’re giving up altogether?”

I shrug. “For now. It’s better than the disastrous dates I’ve had.”

“How disastrous?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Case turns so he’s angled toward me, and our thighs are definitely touching now. “Oh, I do, Jillian. I want nothing more right now than to hear about all your bad dates.”

I study him for a moment. The serious expression, the beard that looks like it was freshly trimmed this morning.

“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And no laughing.”

“Fair enough.”

I sigh, tucking my hands into my coat sleeves. “My last date was a guy I met on Tinder—”

“You went on a date with some stranger from Tinder?”

He sounds so incredibly horrified, I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, Case. Did you know that over 300 million people a year are dating through apps?”

“You’ve done your research, huh?”

“I had to defend my choice to my mom.”

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