Page 34 of A Holly Jilly Christmas

But apparently I lose the battle, because sometime later, I’m aware of being lifted up and held tight as Case carries me back to my room. He places me gently in bed, pulling the covers up to my chin and smoothing my hair over the pillow.

I want to ask him to stay, but I can’t open my eyes, much less my mouth.

Case leans close, his lips brushing my cheek, their softness contrasting with the scratch of his beard. “Sleep well, Jillian. At the risk of sounding like a narcissist, I hope you dream of me.”

CHAPTER 11

I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. Case must have plugged it in for me, because the last thing I vaguely remember was him carrying me to bed. I smile at the memory and answer my phone, despite it being an early morning and an unknown number.

Side effect of no coffee.

“Hello?”

“Is this Jillian Peters?” a man with a deep Texas accent asks.

“That’s me.”

“This is Don at the garage. I’ve got y’all’s car all fixed up and ready to go.”

This snaps me out of my post-sleep gaze. I might as well have just done the polar bear plunge right here in the bedroom. “So soon?”

He chuckles. “And here I thought y’all’d be mad about the wait. Pick her up anytime.”

When I hang up, it’s with the sound of a doomsday timer blaring in my ears. This weekend, wonderful as it was, is far too much, far too soon. I mean, spending the holidays together? Meeting his sisters?

I don’t realize I’m chewing on the skin around my thumbnail until I go too deep and the skin looks pink and starts to throb.

Don’t wreck this, some little voice inside me says. Don’t freak out and sabotage what could be a good thing.

But my anxiety often arrives like soldiers pouring out of a Trojan horse of happiness, and they are heavily armed. Some of my anxiety is just a feeling of restless worry, but some of those worries have specific names. And right now, they center around the fact that Case is exactly what I didn’t want—a man of many tropes.

Case and I work together—the classic office romance trope, even if he’s not my boss. There are so many ways it could go sideways. I still don’t know why he really came with me, and he was all kinds of dodgy about it.

Before we started this trip—and actually after as well—we were barely more than civil. Which gives me total enemies to lovers vibes. How did it switch so quickly? How long can I expect this new dynamic to last before it reverts back into conflict?

He’s also older—checking the age gap box. I don’t know by how much but at least by a few years. Five? Ten?

And I barely know him, as evidenced by point number two. What was I thinking letting him carry me around and put his lips on mine? And my neck. And along my collarbone right at the edge of my shirt.

I shiver at the memory before I throw back the covers and stand. My muscles feel twitchy, my adrenaline pumping. I recognize this in myself. It’s familiar, like a pair of jeans that fit comfortably even if they’re not even the slightest bit flattering.

My mom used to say I came equipped with a big, red self-destruct button and a twitchy trigger finger. And even though I know this about myself, it doesn’t stop the rising wave of panic and the too-loud worries bubbling up.

“Knowing is half the battle,” Mom always says, apparently some quote from a childhood TV show she watched. But knowing I tend to jump out of moving vehicles isn’t helping me win the other half of the battle right now.

When Case knocks on the door, I jump.

“Jillian?” he calls softly. “Are you awake?”

I dart toward the en-suite bathroom, then call, “Just getting in the shower!”

“I brought you coffee,” he says.

“Leave it on the bed! Thanks!” I slam the bathroom door and crank the shower as hot as it will go, waiting for the sound of the bedroom door closing again before I strip down and step into the scalding spray.

* * *

Though I did my best to scrub away my worries, it doesn’t help any more than talking myself down did. I emerge from my bedroom after gulping the coffee and picking at the grits Case brought me.

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