Page 6 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

“So, you’re prepared for quicksand and bear attacks and preventing hypothermia, but haven’t managed basic car maintenance?”

Ouch. Right on the nose with that one.

I laugh weakly. “Guess so.”

Case shakes his head and then goes back to his phone. Again. The man never stops working, apparently. Meanwhile, I snuggle deeper into his coat, wishing for a magic button to undo the past few minutes of conversation. Maybe it’s Case’s scent, acting like a truth serum and disarming my ability to restrain my words. That MUST be it.

If tropes worked in real life, Case would have been totally into the body heat idea, which would have turned into a makeout session hot enough to fog up the car windows.

I’ll be honest—the idea has been appealing ever since I saw Titanic. But, like I said, tropes don’t work in real life.

Which is probably a good thing. Because horror movies have their own set of conventions, and our current situation could result in someone creeping out of the woods to murder us.

That is definitely a worst-case scenario I shouldn’t have been entertaining. I start to feel the itch of anxiety, like tiny ants creepy-crawling their way over my skin. I draw in a slow breath, then let it out just as slowly.

We’re not in a horror movie. No one is coming out of the woods to kill us. It’s CHRISTMAS, for crying out loud! No one gets ax murdered the week of Christmas!

Though research does show how holidays come with increased stress and stress means people get pushed past their limit and might—

“Hey.” Case’s hand finds my shoulder and gives me a quick squeeze. He doesn’t let go right away, and his gentle voice and warm touch short-circuit my anxious thoughts. “We’re okay, Jillian. Nothing is going to happen. Okay?”

I nod, because he’s right. Still …

“Would you mind getting the metal bar thingy out of the trunk?”

A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “The tire iron?”

“Yes, that. Just in case.”

“Just in case of …?”

I’m not going to say ax murderers. I won’t say it.

“Bears,” I blurt. Which is a few degrees less ridiculous than ax murderers.

“I thought you said if there are bears, we should be still,” Case says, still smiling faintly. “But yes, Jillian, for you—not the bears, but you—I’ll get the tire iron.”

Jillian, for you.

As he climbs out of the car, I pull his coat further up over my face.

Not the bears, but you.

It’s not a compliment. Not a pick-up line. But for now, Case’s words—and the sight of him climbing back in with the tire iron—warm my heart.

CHAPTER 3

The tow truck takes much longer than twenty minutes.

And because it’s freezing and Case doesn’t believe in body heat sharing for survival (at least, not with me), things have gotten desperate. I forced him to take his coat after I heard his teeth chattering. And I got creative with layers.

I’m now doing my best impression of Ralphie in A Christmas Story wearing several pants and every shirt I packed. A pair of tights is pulled down my head since I apparently forgot a hat.

This isn’t a good look, nor is it so good for mobility, but it’s okay for survival. And shockingly, Case’s solid presence (and the tire iron) have kept my anxious thoughts about being murdered or dying of hypothermia at bay. Mostly.

Still, I have never been so grateful for anything when I finally see headlights coming toward us.

“Look! That has to be them, right?” I point through the dashboard, watching my breath come out in tiny puffs of air.

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