Page 12 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

Case’s gaze snaps back to me, and his eyes narrow. “What you do. Your role in the company. How valuable this position is to Brightmark.”

Oh, holy snowmen. Is this … an evaluation? Is the company trying to decide which positions—and which people—are essential and nonessential?

I might not be fighting for a raise here but to keep my job.

I lean forward, lowering my voice to a whisper I’m embarrassed to say is very shaky due to my trembling lip. “Am I going to lose my job?”

“What?” He frowns. “No. Are you crying?”

I sniff. “No.”

“Because you look like you’re crying.”

I use my paper napkin to dab at my eyes. “You know, Case, it’s politely understood that you shouldn’t draw attention to someone crying.”

For some reason, talking about it makes me lose the little grip I had on my emotions. I’m on the verge of full-on bawling. Which I will NOT do in front of this man.

“You want me to pretend not to see your tears? I can’t do that, Jillian.”

Well, that’s sweet. Except this is Case—the spy and potential thief of my idea and my raise.

“It’s etiquette,” I say.

“I don’t think I’ve heard this rule, and I know my Emily Post.”

This comment immediately yanks my attention away from my delicate emotional state. “You? Mr. Barely Civil subscribes to the school of Emily Post?”

“Rules and manners were very important in my house. You think I’m barely civil?”

Mari returns with our drinks and food then, so I’m saved from having to answer that very direct question. Instead, once she’s gone, I point a fork at his plate. Even the butter for his toast is on the side.

“That is about as boring a meal as you could possibly order from a diner. But you did want grease-free, so mission accomplished.”

Am I insulting his food choices because I’m embarrassed he saw me cry? Yep. And I’m only slightly ashamed to admit it.

Case slowly unwraps his silverware and smooths his napkin over his lap, avoiding my eyes. “My IBS tends to act up more when I travel.”

I almost drop my fork. “IBS as in—”

“Irritable bowel syndrome. Yes.”

I want to crawl under the table and die. No, under the table isn’t low enough. I need someone to bring in a backhoe, dig a giant hole, and toss my body into it because I am DEAD.

“Case, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Nor did I expect you to. I don’t tend to find myself eager to discuss my bowels with anyone.” Carefully and methodically, he begins cutting up his chicken. “Especially not an attractive woman.”

My entire body shuts down like a power grid in a storm. Thoughts aren’t forming coherently in my head. I can’t make myself start eating, despite the delicious smell of my waffle. And I think my jaw is somewhere on the table.

Case thinks I’m attractive?

Case takes a bite of chicken, like this is just normal table talk. His bowels. Me being attractive. Both in the same paragraph, which—ew. But the important point remains: Case thinks I’m an attractive woman.

“What?” he asks, finally meeting my eyes again. I swear, his cheeks are the slightest bit flushed. He sighs and sets down his silverware. “Was it the attractive comment?”

I nod.

“Please tell me you’re not one of those women who doesn’t see themselves clearly. Or that you pretend to deny compliments as a way of fishing for more. I’d be very disappointed if that’s the case. You honestly don’t know you’re attractive?”

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