Page 8 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

See? Tropes are bad. They’re really just clichés with a cuter name.

“Work stuff?” I ask, nodding toward Case’s phone.

He tilts the screen away. “It’s personal.”

“Ah. Sorry to intrude.”

The polite thing would be for him to say I’m not intruding and explain he’s checking his stock portfolio or maybe texting a girlfriend (hopefully not), but he offers up nothing.

Big Mo finally reappears, climbing into the crowded cab. His big body takes up a lot of room. I’m forced even closer to Case, who makes an annoyed sound and does his best to plaster himself against the door.

Sheesh. The man just touched my butt. If I have cooties, he’s definitely already caught them.

“Sorry for the tight squeeze,” Mo says, starting down the road. “But I’ve got Tina all set. I’ll drop her off after I get you situated. Which hotel are you staying at?”

“We’re actually staying in a loft downtown?” It’s more of a question than a statement because the details are on my phone. And I don’t have enough flexibility to reach it right now.

“We are?” Case asks, sounding mildly horrified. “Whose loft?”

“Gotta be Tank’s,” Mo says. “He mentioned some movie company was coming out.”

“That’s us.”

“Real nice place,” Mo says. “And if you’re hungry, there’s a diner right around the corner open late.”

Case sniffs. “A greasy spoon kind of place? Everything deep fried?”

Big Mo smiles. “Not everything.”

“Pass,” Case mutters.

“Well, hope you packed some snacks, because nothing else is open at this hour. There’s Wolf’s bar, but he doesn’t serve food. And it’s a bit of a drive and you have no car, so …”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say, trying to elbow Case.

Mo chuckles. “I should hope so. I’m the chef.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m about to sweat to death underneath all these layers. Thankfully, Big Mo announces “We’re here,” as he drives into the kind of picture-perfect downtown made for made-for-TV movies.

So perfect I audibly gasp and strain forward against my seatbelt to get a better view.

Both sides of the street are lined with old brick buildings, the kind with tall windows and unique wooden doors. Most have second story balconies with wrought iron railings. Christmas lights crisscross over the street and there’s even a little town square, dusted with snow, featuring a white gazebo and a massive Christmas tree glowing like a beacon, just for me.

Or for Brightmark Studios.

“I’ll take it,” I murmur.

“Tank’s done a good job with this town,” Mo says, pulling up in front of one of the buildings. He nods to the door. “This is his place. Did he say where to meet him?”

“The address is on my phone. I’ll have to check.”

But first, I need to get out of this stifling car, get some distance between me and Mr. Glued to His Phone, and get out of these layers before I expire from heat stroke.

“All the lofts are above the storefronts, so it will be a quick walk to whichever one it is. I’ll help with the bags.”

A minute later, Big Mo drives off after pointing out the diner, which is hard to miss considering it’s the only business lit up. Most of the storefront windows are covered with brown paper and signs that read, Coming Soon! My stomach rumbles just looking at the cheery diner window strewn with greenery and lights.

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