Page 4 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

He stares at me long enough to make the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Which means your car has been running on the same set of tires for eight years?”

“Is that … bad?”

His look says that even ASKING if it’s bad is bad. “Should I assume you don’t have a spare?”

“Why would you assume that? There’s one in the trunk.” Probably.

His brown eyes look even darker out here in the deserted countryside. The only lights come from the dashboard instruments, which are fairly dim. There are a few seconds of staring, causing that same melty feeling in my chest again.

When he doesn’t stop staring, I add, “I think I have a spare in the trunk.”

He nods like he was waiting for me to confess, then says, “I’ll check.” With lightning speed, he pops Tina’s trunk and climbs out.

I hope I have a spare. Not only because I don’t want to be stranded here, but also because I’d love to watch Case changing a tire in his expensive dress shoes. Not to mention having a spare would make me look less like an irresponsible car owner. Even if that’s exactly what I am.

I rub my hands together, glad at least the engine is still running so we have heat.

As though my thought was somehow projected into the universe and was found unworthy, the engine makes a wheeze, a clank, and sputters to a stop.

“No,” I whisper. “Tina, you can’t do me like this.”

Case’s door swings open and he sticks his head in, snow swirling around him and falling in his dark hair and beard. “No spare,” he says.

No surprise, his tone seems to say.

“Sorry.” I really, really am. “And something happened to the engine. There was a, um, noise.”

“So I heard.” He slides his hand around until he locates the lever for the hood. “Be right back.”

I grab his coat from the back seat. “Want your—”

His door slams on my question, and he disappears under the hood. I should put his coat back, but the temperature is already dropping inside the car. After a moment of hesitation, I drape his coat over me. The fabric feels expensive. Which is to say—it feels nothing like anything I own, the bulk of which comes from Target or Ross.

Since Case can’t see me, I lean down and sniff the collar. It’s the same heady, male scent I smelled when he leaned toward me.

Don’t get used to it, I tell myself, inhaling deeply.

When the hood slams, I freeze, my nose still buried in his collar. Case stares at me through the windshield, and there’s no way he misses me smelling his coat. I can’t read the expression on his face, but all of his expressions are variations on the same theme: irritation or something like smug triumph. I can practically hear him mentally chastising me for such poor car maintenance.

Why do I feel drawn to the idea of Case chastising me in the same commanding tone he used when he told me to stop screaming?

A moment later he joins me in the car again, his hair dusted with snow. I try to hand him his coat, but he shakes his head.

“Keep it. Quick question—when’s the last time you got your oil changed?”

“Let’s see … I last got a coupon in the mail, um … I don’t know. Sometime this year. Probably?”

“It’s December.”

“I’m aware,” I say weakly. “I’m sorry.”

He makes a growly sound of frustration. “I’m sure you are.”

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know? I do these trips alone all the time. I’ve never needed a babysitter before.”

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