Page 5 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

I thought it was odd when I got a text from an unknown number as I was packing. Even odder—the texter identified himself as Case, ordering me to pick him up in Austin on my way to Sheet Cake from Houston.

Not asking. Not explaining. Ordering.

He didn’t seem amused by my response, which was New phone. Who dis?

His curt responses in our short text thread kept me from asking any of the questions I had. Like, why was Case in Austin to begin with? Why does he need to come on this trip? Is he going to be scouting alongside me—a job I have always done alone—or is there some other reason he insisted on coming?

Case pulls out his phone and starts tapping. We can’t be that far from Sheet Cake, so hopefully a garage or towing place is open. Even small towns have those. In our movies, they also tend to come with hunky small-town men who look sexy in coveralls and never, ever get grease on the heroine.

Unless, of course, it’s part of a cute scene that starts with a fight that’s ninety-nine percent sexual tension and ends with a kiss.

Within a few minutes, Case has made contact with a local towing service and given our approximate location. When he ends the call, a very awkward silence hangs between us right along with the cold air that seems to be growing more frigid by the second.

I burrow down further into his coat. “Do you want your coat back?”

He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m fine. They should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“We can always share body heat.” I don’t know where the thought comes from, much less why it comes out of my mouth in actual, audible words.

Someone kill me now. Frostbite, hurry up! Hypothermia, have mercy on me!

I don’t need Case’s coat to keep me warm anymore. The fiery heat of embarrassment burns through me like some kind of volcanic event. I should look away, but I find myself transfixed by his dark eyes.

Case stares, his expression intense in the dim light. His mouth tightens. His eyes narrow. Even his trim beard looks angry.

And my mouth just keeps going, digging a hole I’ll never climb out of.

“The most effective way to share body heat is skin to skin, but considering we barely know each other, we should probably keep our clothes on.”

I just stuck my whole foot in my mouth and then decided to gnaw my way up to my knee as well.

“We should keep our clothes on,” Case repeats, his intonation as flat as Tina’s tire.

“Yes.”

“Because we barely know each other.”

“Right.”

“Have you put a lot of thought into this scenario?” he asks.

I swallow. “Definitely not. I mean, not with you specifically. I’m a worst case scenario person. I like to be prepared.”

I don’t need to explain that it helps curb my anxiety. Mine is pretty mild and self-diagnosed by Dr. Google. For me, I can usually talk myself down or use breathing techniques. But imagining terrible scenarios and then making a plan for how I’d deal with them has been a great preventative. My brother gave me The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook a few years ago, and I keep it on my bedside table.

“Like, in the case of a bear attack, be still. But with a mountain lion, you want to appear larger. So you should spread your arms or coat wide—if you’re wearing a coat. In quicksand, you want to lie back and get as flat as possible.”

I need to stop talking. But it’s like my scream spiral from earlier—I can’t seem to regain control of myself.

“Is quicksand a real point of concern in your life?”

“You never know. Like I said, I like to be prepared.”

“For quicksand.”

“And bears. And being trapped in a car with no heat when it’s snowing.”

I finally manage to halt the free flow of words from my mouth, which means we descend into that same awkward silence. MORE awkward now that I’ve brought up the idea of us sharing body heat. With or without clothes.

---