Page 21 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“Anyway, you had a meal without me. Why can’t I have one without you? Not a big deal.”

Case studies me. “I told you, Tank and I talked football.”

Right. He did say that … but can I trust him? I study his face, looking for traces of deception or malice or—fine! Maybe also for traces of something else. Something like interest or any indication we might be moving from colleagues who barely know each other into something more.

“What did you talk about?” he asks pointedly.

NOT football.

But I’m saved from having to explain or trying to lie when Tank reappears at the table with Mari. This afternoon, she has a red flower behind her ear where the holly was last night.

“Good to see you again,” she says, smiling. “What can I get for you today?”

And this time, when Case orders a baked potato with all the fixings on the side, I say nothing. Even though I cannot fathom the idea of eating a baked potato without everything on it. My bowels would just have to get OVER it because I need my sour cream and cheese and bacon and butter.

At that very moment, Case passes his dish of butter to me without a word.

It’s just because of his IBS, I tell myself. No other reason.

But the secret smile he gives me as he slides over his butter seems to suggest something else entirely.

* * *

“Let me know if you have any other questions or need anything,” Tank says as we exit the diner, where he insisted on paying for our meal.

Usually we’d pick up the bill, just part of our expenses. But Tank was insistent.

He smiles. “I mean that. Anything at all.”

I believe him. The big man has practically bent himself in half like some kind of contortionist to make us feel welcome. Not just the studio. He’s made Case and me feel personally welcomed.

Case had a few questions at lunch, ones I’d already asked but Tank answered again, and then we were regaled with stories of Tank’s kids and of the town of Sheet Cake, where the residents apparently call themselves Sheeters. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much. Even Case cracked a few smiles.

“I think we’re good,” I tell Tank, removing my hand from the warmth of my coat pocket to shake his hand. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Any word on your car?”

I shake my head. “Still undergoing surgery.”

A very expensive surgery. One that’s going to make my already minuscule Christmas budget even smaller. Apparently, all that car maintenance stuff is pretty integral to having a functioning vehicle. Who knew!

“Actually, on that note,” Case says, glancing at me before turning back to Tank. “We could really use a vehicle if you happen to know where we could rent one or—”

“Have mine.” Tank fishes the keys out of his pocket and tosses them to Case, who catches them easily.

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly,” I say, just as Case says, “Thank you.”

“My truck is parked just down the street,” Tank says, pointing toward a big blue pickup. “You’ve got my number. I’m happy to drive you back to pick your car up when it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Case says again, as though it’s his car that broke down, and Tank is doing him the favor. “When do you need it back?”

Tank waves dismissively. “I’ve got my niece coming over to spend the night, so I’ll be good until tomorrow. Let me know if you want to see the brewery. I can message James.”

I hope my cheeks are already red from the cold so the flush I feel doesn’t show. Before Case showed up at lunch, I might have asked Tank about getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the brewery. It’s not open yet, but it’s a few blocks away with construction vehicles parked out front and workers moving in and out.

I asked because I like Dark Horse beer.

Not because I fangirl over James Graham.

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