Page 18 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

Now he’s laughing but stops and holds up both hands when I glare. “How did that go over?”

“She sent me headlines of horror stories for weeks. Weeks.”

“And the date? How did it go?”

“It didn’t.” I sigh, burrowing my chin even deeper into my coat so my voice is muffled. “We met at a restaurant, but instead of getting a table, he asked if we were going to his place or mine.”

Case stiffens next to me, and I wonder if I’ve finally stepped over the line of whatever friendship or colleague-ship we’re building here. I’m still totally confused about all the lines or lack thereof.

When he speaks, his voice sounds strained. “And?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s embarrassing.”

Case’s hand appears in front of me, and then he pulls down my scarf and the collar of my coat. The movement is weirdly sexy. Maybe because the side of his fingers graze my bottom lip and then the sensitive skin on my neck. Apparently, it’s EXTRA sensitive today. Probably because of the cold. Not because of Case.

“Hey,” I protest lightly, my voice sounding way too breathy.

“I can’t hear you,” he says. “You’re mumbling into your coat.”

Whatever part of me wanted to unload personal info onto Case has gone into hibernation. Now, I just want to backtrack and ask about work stuff or Christmas plans or something totally normal and surface level. Because that’s where we belong—professionally surface level. I’d even take bowel talk right now. I should totally ask for a list of acceptable foods.

“Tell me,” he demands in a voice so low, so growly and forceful, that I have no choice but to do what he says.

“I pelted him with mints.”

Case doesn't speak right away. Then, exorcist slowly, his head swivels in my direction. “You what?”

“You know how they always have those big bowls of mints at the hostess stand or by the door? Well, I grabbed a handful and started throwing them at the guy.”

We’re sitting so close it’s kind of awkward to turn and meet Case’s gaze, but just like his demanding words, his eyes leave me no choice—I have to look.

“What?” I ask, unable to read a single thing in his espresso eyes.

Then his face breaks out in the same brilliant smile that almost undid me the night before.

My, what big dimples you have!

The better to disarm you with, my dear.

“Shut up,” I tell him, though he hasn’t said a word.

“I’m trying to picture it. How many mints would you say you threw? Just one handful?”

I clear my throat, then look down at my boots. “More.”

“Come on. I need details. I’m a numbers guy. Would you say a third of the bowl?”

I shake my head. “Not a third.”

“Half?”

“I mean … at least half.”

Case’s shoulder bumps mine again. “You dumped the whole bowl over his head, didn’t you?”

I giggle. “I wish. He was standing too far away. And he was kind of tall. I would have needed a stepladder to get up there.”

“You like tall guys, then?”

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