Page 7 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

Case turns off his phone—finally—and leans forward. “I sure hope so.”

When a wrecker pulls up beside us, we both audibly sigh in relief. A big, bearded man rolls down his window, waving for us to stay where we are as he does a three-point turn, goes past us, and backs up in front of Tina.

He hops out and walks to Case’s side of the car. If it weren’t for the man’s warm smile, I’d be taking my chances running through the woods, because the man is massive. He’s got a whole lumberjack thing going on. Which, in this situation and without the friendly smile, could be lumberjack ax murder.

Lumberjax murder—I file this idea away for when our studio expands from making romance movies.

“I’m Big Mo. Y’all called about some car trouble?” He eyes the tire iron on the dashboard, and Case clears his throat.

I lean across the center console. “Tina isn’t having a very good night,” I say, and even though he has no reason to, Big Mo nods like he understands.

“We blew a tire and the engine died,” Case says. I wait for him to explain it’s my fault for being a terrible car owner, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll get Tina hooked up,” Mo says. “Why don’t y’all wait in my cab? It’s nice and toasty. Leave the bags for now.”

“Do you, ah, need help?” It’s adorable how Case asks, even as it’s clear from the way he’s eyeing the tow truck he wouldn’t have the first clue how.

“Nope. Just leave the keys in and go get warm. You look like a couple of popsicles.”

I thought I was cold in the car, but outside is so much worse. I’m shivering as I waddle in my layers over to the wrecker, where Case waits by the passenger door. He opens it for me.

“You first.”

But climbing up into the big truck proves a challenge. I can’t bend my arms or legs with all my layers. I try hopping, but I get maybe an inch off the ground and only manage to ram my shins into the car. Which would hurt if I could feel my shins.

With a heavy sigh of annoyance, Case says, “Here,” and then manages to locate my waist and hoist me most of the way in.

“Oof!” I end up on my face, sprawled halfway across the cracked vinyl bench seat.

“Can’t you wiggle the rest of the way in?” Case asks from somewhere behind me.

I try to do just that and make exactly zero progress. “Apparently not.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I’m about to ask for what, when he says, “touching,” in the same tone of voice my OBGYN uses. Then his hands land on my butt—at least, I think it’s his hands and I think it’s my butt; it’s hard to tell through the layers—and gives me a hearty shove.

Okay, then. Now I’m fully inside the car, and have to do the hard work of maneuvering into a seated position. All while dealing with the realization that Case touched my butt. (Through fifteen layers of pants. But still!)

Before I make much progress, the driver’s side door opens and Big Mo appears.

“Need a hand?” he asks, chuckling.

“Or a forklift,” I mutter.

His big hands grasp my coat at the shoulders and tug me upright as Case swings my legs down to the floor. Now I just feel like a toddler being loaded into a car seat. Especially as Case leans close to buckle my seatbelt.

I should thank him. Instead, I try not to noticeably sniff him again.

“Thank you,” I say, adjusting myself and my pride.

Case doesn’t respond as he climbs in, but Big Mo gives me a quick nod before disappearing again. Case and I are sitting VERY close. I’d relish the moment more if I could feel our thighs cemented together. But I can hardly feel anything, so I simply appreciate the view of his dress pants touching my pajama pants over jeans over yoga pants over the leggings I started out with.

“Cozy,” I say.

Case only grunts, pulling out his phone again. Rude! Look, I know we’re not on a date or anything, but I happen to be of the opinion that staying glued to an electronic device of any kind when a living, breathing human is next to you displays a total lack of manners.

It doesn’t help that my ex (a best friend’s brother situation) and I broke up when I gave him an ultimatum—the TV or me—and he chose the TV. In hindsight, I should have explained I didn’t mean he had to get rid of the TV. Just maybe … not watch sports 24-7.

Jeff was kind of a jerk anyway, something very clear looking in the rear view. My only regret is that losing Jeff also meant losing my friend Jaycee.

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