Page 27 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

I hesitate, because if the door is any indication, this isn’t going to be a clean bathroom.

“It’s fine,” Case says. “I checked.”

As far as chivalry goes, checking a bathroom for a girl isn’t on any top ten list. But maybe it should be.

Safely shut inside a room so small it’s hard to even stand, I stare into the mirror that’s attached to the wall with extensive layers of duct tape. My cheeks are flushed pink, my hair is a staticky mess, and my eyes have the look of someone who’s just been thoroughly kissed.

I wish!

My pupils are wide, my lids hanging low, like they can’t possibly find the energy to open wider. It’s not really fair to look this way WITHOUT being kissed. Not even a little bit fair.

I notice a few things suddenly. It looks like there was a word or phrase written in lipstick on the mirror that someone tried to wipe off. There’s a little bit of pink smudge still, but the mirror is clean. So is the sink. Cleaner than I’d expect for a place like this. Even the toilet seat is down and pee-free.

Did Case clean this bathroom for me?

I glance in the trash can and, sure enough, there are a bunch of balled up paper towels, one streaked with pink lipstick. He DID.

And this tiny gesture gives me far more pleasure than it should.

CHAPTER 8

When I step outside, ready to thank Case, my words dry up. Because it’s hard to talk watching the way he peels himself off the wall where he was leaning, watching the door. His smile, coming slow and looking heated, does me in.

“How do you feel about dancing?” he asks.

“What?”

“Dancing. Some people love it and some hate it. Where do you stand on the issue?”

“Um. I'm for it, I guess.”

I actually love dancing. But I also happen to have about ten left feet that appear when I hit the floor. Going dancing requires me to make a conscious choice between my urge to boogie and my hope to preserve my dignity.

Right now, the choice is more between my desire to dance with Case (an alluring idea for sure) and to prevent him from seeing me at my worst (an idea I like a lot less).

Dancing is an excuse to touch, to get close to someone else with no pretense, no promises. It’s just a dance. You can say things with your arms, your hands, your hips—things you might not be ready to confess in words. Dancing makes you light and loose. It feels a little like a free pass.

I swallow around a knot in my throat, one made from a mix of desire and nerves. “I don’t know if …”

“Let’s do it,” Case says, and his smile demolishes the last of my resistance.

How can I say no when he smiles at me like that?

Plus, Case has already seen me with tights on my head and knows I’m pretty much a child when it comes to taking care of my car. I’m not sure if I could look more foolish.

“Fine.” I try to say it like it’s a chore, but I know his assessing eyes don’t miss the way I’m already bouncing on my toes and trying to hide a smile.

“The party’s outside,” Case says.

He holds up my coat and helps me into it, his chest close to my back. I almost lose my mind when he sweeps his hand over my neck, gently lifting my hair out of the coat.

Like cleaning up the bathroom, this is totally an underappreciated romantic gesture. I’m going to feel the ghost of his fingertips on my neck for a long time.

“Thank you.”

Case takes my hand again and holds open the back door. There are definitely more people out here than inside the small building. Christmas lights crisscross a big area surrounded by more tall, metal heat lamps like Wolf had inside. A crackling fire pit adds a warm glow and speakers play a Loretta Lyn Christmas song. Small clusters of people stand around talking, with one couple swaying in the middle of everything, like they’re the only two people in the world.

The night is cold, but holding Case’s hand has warmed me through and through. “How does one dance to Christmas music?” I ask, hesitating.

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