Page 25 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“Hey, what was the place Big Mo mentioned when he drove us into town—some wolf bar?”

Case grins over at me. “Wolf is a man who happens to own a bar.”

“That makes a lot more sense than what I was thinking.” Which was some kind of Twilight-themed Team Jacob saloon.

“I think we should go,” I say.

“To a bar?” Case looks skeptical.

I’m not sure if it’s because he’s not the bar type or if this Wolf’s bar sounds sketchy. Maybe he’s hungry. The horizon is edged with gold and red as the early winter night closes in.

“Not just any bar. Wolf’s bar.” Before Case can protest, I add, “I’ll text Tank for the address.”

* * *

There is no address for Wolf’s bar (which has me asking so many questions like—how does that work as far as tax purposes?) but Tank texted me small-town directions. As in: drive till we get to the four way stop, go left, then find the gravel driveway just past the crooked oak but before the old barn.

We missed the crooked oak—all oaks are pretty much crooked to some degree—but after Case u-turned at the old barn, we manage to find the gravel drive. I’d think the weird metal shed was more a meeting place for some kind of apocalypse cult except for all the trucks out front and the sound of country music faintly drifting over the air.

“Still up for this?” Case asks, peering through the windshield. He still hasn’t turned the truck off, so I’m guessing he’s having second thoughts.

Which only makes me more eager to go inside. “Let’s do this.”

The bar definitely doesn’t have a shred of Twilight vibes. Though Wolf Waters has definitely got the Charlie Swan thing going on with his dark hair and mustache. His face looks a little paler around his jaw, like he just shaved off the rest of his beard and hasn’t had time to even out his tan.

“Welcome to Backwoods Bar,” Wolf says, leaning on the bar, which is really just a wide wood plank balancing on two barrels.

Apparently, Wolf’s bar has an actual name, even if no address. Good to know. It’s nice that he doesn’t point out that we’re strangers. Probably no need, since the people scattered around at various unmatching tables make it clear with their stares.

There are stools by the “bar,” so I plunk down on one, unzipping my jacket and laying it across my lap. I expected it to be chilly inside, but there are several of those tall metal space heaters around the room, and it’s actually quite toasty. Case sits beside me but keeps his jacket on.

“Do you have any Dark Horse?” I ask, ignoring Case’s snort.

Wolf’s grin widens. “Sure do. You’re in luck—James dropped some off earlier today. Not a full stock, but just some of his seasonal stout.”

“We’ll take two,” Case says, shrugging when my brows shoot up. “What? You’ve raved about it, so I at least need to try it.”

Wolf pulls two unlabeled bottles out of a cooler behind him. After popping the tops, he slides them over. “I don’t do glasses. Not unless you’re ordering something a little harder.” He winks, and Case scowls.

“Enjoy. First round’s on the house.” Wolf walks off as someone calls to him from across the room. Shed. Bar? Whatever. I tilt my head a little, listening in as Wolf commiserates with a grizzled man complaining about his ram escaping the pasture again.

Case clinks the neck of his bottle against mine, drawing my attention back to him. “What are we drinking to tonight?”

I pause, the beer almost to my lips. Turning slightly, I meet Case’s gaze. “To new friends?”

I’m still not sure if he’s got some ulterior work motive for being here. I mean, he has to, even if I don’t know what yet. But with how open he’s been, friendship seems like a safe start.

“Friends,” he agrees, then just before the bottle meets his lips, he adds, “For now.”

Before this weekend, I’d have taken that as a veiled threat. Maybe that I’m about to lose my job. Frankly, I still haven’t one hundred percent ruled that out.

But after the last day of being with Case practically every minute, this feels more like a flirty promise of things to come.

I don’t hate it at all. In fact, I like it so much, I get super nervous and drink half my beer without taking the time to appreciate all the lovely fall notes and the depth of flavor.

“Okay, you’re right about the beer.” Case holds out the bottle, examining it. “This is fantastic. But I still think you have a crush on James Graham.”

“It’s totally about the beer,” I lie.

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