Page 2 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

I don’t know what black ice is, exactly, but I’ve absolutely heard about its dangers.

“Pull over. I’ll drive,” Case says. “Otherwise we’ll never get there.”

I should protest, even if just to keep the conversation going. This argument is the most words we’ve said since Case hopped in the car and got lost in his phone screen.

But to be honest, I hate driving at night in normal weather. Especially on unfamiliar roads. What I said is true—any minute, the roads could get icy.

“Fine. You can drive.”

Case takes the liberty—or has the audacity—to push the hazard lights button. I resist the urge—barely—to slap his hand away from the dashboard. Instead, I focus on slowing down and checking the mirrors to make sure I won’t get rear-ended as I pull over. Thankfully, the highway is pretty deserted, and in a few moments, we’re on the shoulder and hopping out of the car.

Case walks around the front. I walk around the back. It’s freezing and our coats are in the back seat, so we both hustle, though I manage to catch a snowflake on my tongue. I want it to be magical but it disappears too quickly to be anything at all.

We get in and slam our doors at the exact same time like we’re a synchronized door slamming team. I glance over. Case’s knees are practically jammed into the steering wheel, his fancy suit pants—because even now, he has to wear a suit—getting all wrinkled. Meanwhile I have a good two feet between my legging-encased knees and the dashboard.

I try to swallow my laughter, but a giggle escapes. Case stops fiddling with my mirrors to glare over at me.

“What’s funny?”

“You look like a giant driving a baby’s go-kart.”

“Babies don’t drive go-karts.”

“I should hope not. I can’t begin to imagine the insurance costs.”

Grumbling and completely ignoring my quick wit, Case feels around, obviously looking for a way to move the seat back. I watch, because I find it strangely entertaining to see him behind the wheel of my car.

“Where’s the button?” he demands.

“There is no button.”

He stares at me again. And look—I KNOW nothing is happening between us, but the way he looks at me makes my insides feel like they’re being melted from the heat of a thousand suns. It feels much better than it sounds, trust me.

His mouth takes on a sneery tilt. “What do you mean there is no button? Surely, you can adjust your seats.”

“I mean, I don’t get paid the big bucks like some people, and Tina only has the basics. There’s a lever under the seat.”

Case practically has to fold himself into a Bavarian pretzel to reach the lever. I hide my laughter behind a very enthusiastic coughing fit. He doesn’t buy it though, or else he’s just bitter about having to manually move the seat back, because the glare he gives me when he sits back upright is the glare to end all glares. Glarepocalpyse.

“Tina?” he asks.

“Didn’t you name your Mercedes?”

“I don’t drive a Mercedes.”

“Your Beemer?”

He scoffs as he checks the mirrors again and accelerates, smoothly merging onto the highway. “No one calls them Beemers.”

“I do, Case. I do.”

A moment of silence stretches between us. Maybe the first comfortable one of the trip so far. That’s saying something. Especially since it’s only been twenty minutes since I picked Case up in Austin. Why he was in Austin at all, I’m unsure, but it was on my way from Houston to Sheet Cake.

Yes—that’s the actual name of the town. Sheet Cake, Texas.

Also yes—my mouth waters a little every time I say—or even think—the town’s name. I do love chocolate, and I don’t discriminate about the source: pie, cake, or ice cream will all do just fine.

“Why Tina?” Case asks.

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