Page 30 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“You’ll be cold regardless. I need to see if you're going to be cold on the ride to the hospital or back to the loft.”

He smiles, a small, crooked one. I think his lips are turning blue. “Are you just trying to get me out of my clothes?”

Forgetting he might be burned under his clothes, I smack his arm. “Take it off.”

“Because I feel like I heard somewhere that sharing body heat is the best way to—”

“Off.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Gingerly, Case lifts the blanket off his shoulders, and I don’t miss the way he avoids letting it brush his back. I swallow thickly. Burns aren’t anything to mess around with. Depending on the fabric and how it handles heat, his clothes could have melted into his skin and—

“Jillian, I’m okay. Promise.” His voice holds a tender edge that only pushes me closer to crying.

“It’s my fault,” I say, forcing steel into my wobbly voice. “I said we should come to this excuse for a bar.”

“And I’m glad. I enjoyed it. Especially the dancing. Before the whole, you know, ram attack.”

“You liked the dancing?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Just the dancing?”

Because I’ll be honest; the kissing trumped the dancing, and the dancing was pretty great.

“No,” Case says, smiling. “Not just the dancing. Can you check my back now? I’m freezing.”

I step behind him and am relieved to see that, while he’s definitely going to need a new winter coat, his button-down shirt looks fine other than some ashy smudges and being soaked through.

“How am I, nurse? Is it fatal?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think you have long. Best get your affairs in order,” I say, carefully putting the blanket back up over his shoulders. “Now, let’s get you back to the loft.”

I open the car door for him and close it carefully once he’s inside. Smiling, I jog around to the driver’s side. I don’t hate the feeling of taking care of Case. Not at all. Especially now that I know he doesn’t have second-degree burns that I’ll feel guilty about forever.

“What did I tell you?” I ask when I climb inside. “It’s toasty warm because I put it on high. Repeat after me: I’m not always right.”

Case grumbles, but it’s a good-natured grumble. “You’re not always right.”

“Case! That’s not what I said.” I carefully maneuver the truck over the gravel drive, hoping I remember how to get back to town.

“You said, ‘I’m not always right.’ I think it’s great you’ve learned to admit it.”

We spend the rest of the drive like this, bickering good-naturedly back and forth while I’m quietly wondering when we’ll kiss again and, once we get back from this trip, if this version of Case will get swallowed up again by the one I thought I knew.

* * *

The moment we step into the loft, Case starts stripping off his clothes. I’m not too alarmed when he drops the itchy blanket by the door. Or when he sheds his coat. But when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, then gives up and rips apart the front like he’s auditioning for the next Magic Mike movie, I get nervous.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he toes off his shoes.

“I’m not walking through the loft tracking water and mud and who knows what else. Avert your eyes if you can’t handle it.”

Oh, I definitely can’t handle it. But I don’t avert my eyes.

Not as he pulls his T-shirt over his head, revealing a back rippling with muscles and no burn in sight.

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