Page 28 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“Merrily and with great cheer,” Case answers with a grin.

While I’m distracted, laughing, he pulls me out onto the makeshift dance floor, consisting of packed dirt and gravel. Like movie magic, the song on the speakers switches to a slow song. Slow dancing, I can do. I sway with the BEST of them.

Case slides his hands inside my coat, finding my waist, and I draw in a little breath at the feel of his hands only a layer of fabric away from my skin.

“This okay?” he asks, and when I nod, one side of his mouth lifts in a teasing smile. “Then maybe you should put your arms around me.”

Invitation: accepted.

I slip my hands under the collar of his coat, hesitantly at first, then touching his neck more firmly as his fingers tighten around me. I like the way his hair feels under my fingertips, and I do some exploring, sliding my fingers up and playing with the soft strands. He shivers.

“That’s nice,” he says, his voice rough.

I explore with a little more intention as he pulls me a little closer. One of his hands drops to my hip, his fingers hooking through my belt loop.

“This isn’t at all what I expected when you texted me that you were coming along on the trip,” I say. My smile is shy, but my fingers gain confidence, giving his neck a light massage.

“You mean you weren’t imagining us slow dancing to ‘O Holy Night’ at a country bar?”

I scrunch up my nose. “It is a little weird slow dancing to this song. Feels like some kind of blasphemy.”

“At most, it’s light heresy,” Case says. “But since we aren’t bumping and grinding, it’s probably okay.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Why don’t you show this side of you more? I mean, I had no idea you could be funny. Or even smile.”

As though it’s embarrassed by the mention, Case’s smile retreats.

“Sorry—was that too personal?” I ask. “I tend to always say more than I should.”

“I like your words,” Case says. “I like the way you don’t mind being a little goofy or just being honest. You are always yourself, Jillian, and I happen to love that about you.”

He didn’t say he loves YOU, I try to tell the part of my brain that’s throwing confetti and picking out wedding dresses at the use of the L-word. It’s no use. There is a premature celebration happening in my mind.

“Sorry,” he says. “I know you want me to call you Jilly.”

I’m already shaking my head. “No. I love the way my name sounds on your lips.”

Now we’re BOTH throwing around the word love like it’s table salt that should be sprinkled liberally on everything.

He grins. “It doesn’t remind you of your great-grandmother who hates you?”

“No. Her beard isn’t quite as fetching.”

“Good. Because the last thing I want is to have you thinking about your great grandma right now.”

He pulls me closer by my belt loop until we’re pressed tightly together, his body warm and solid against mine. The hand on my waist slips just under the hem of my sweater, his fingertips brushing my skin lightly.

I’m lost in his eyes, but not so lost I don’t hear the lone dissenting voice in my head yelling warnings about office romance and tropes never working out. I ignore it, like you do walking past someone shouting about the end of the world on a street corner.

Not today, friend. Not today.

“Jillian, unless you have any reason why I shouldn’t, I’m going to kiss you,” he says, slowly dipping his head toward me.

Instead of helping the situation along by pulling his lips down to mine the way I’m tempted to, I say, “What kinds of reasons? Like bad breath? Or having a virus?”

“Jillian,” he says again in that rumbly voice—and why did I ever think I didn’t like him saying my full name? “Respectfully, I’d like you to stop talking now.”

And then his mouth is on mine. There is no hesitation, no soft exploration or any question, just a full-on, I’m gonna ruin you for all other men, staking my claim kind of kiss.

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