Page 12 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Comfort, I guess? I’m safe inside this world, because at any point in the story, I know the full scope of its past and the direction it’s going for the future. And the characters feel like real people I have a relationship with. It’s like my memory can’t tell the difference.”

“I highly recommend real relationships.” Jake sips his espresso, then he sets it down in front of him. “And new books. How do you know you’re not missing out on something incredible?”

I’m not sure if Jake’s “something incredible” means books or relationships, but a conversation about one is significantly safer than the other. So, I go with that. “I try, sometimes. But if I’m not hooked in the first ten pages or so, I put it down.”

Jake is motionless except for his thumbs rubbing slowly against each other. “I wasn’t talking about books, Evie.”

I meet his eyes and try to keep my tone light. “Relationships are a lot like books, actually. No matter how good they are, they always end.”

“Ah. I’d argue that unlike books, people can love you back.”

I swallow hard and look down at my hands in my lap. Jake must sense the vibe shift, because he picks up his espresso again and glances away. Softly, he says, “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.”

“I just prefer to have these sorts of conversations after a few glasses of wine instead of with my morning coffee.” I tuck the book under my arm and hop down from my stool. “Bye, Jake.”

Halfway to the door, the aftertaste that Bye, Jake leaves in my mouth makes me stop and turn around. Beyond knowing that he lives nearby, I have no reason to believe I’ll ever run into him again after I leave this coffee shop. And I really didn’t like the way it felt when I arrived this morning expecting to see him but he wasn’t here.

“The tour leaves from the Nell of Old Drury pub at seven,” I say.

Twisting to face me, he drapes his arm over the back of his stool. “So, are you asking me to go with you?”

I pinch my lips together in a wry half-smile.

Jake leans forward. “To be clear—I’m all in, either way. I’m just curious if I’m responding to a question or a command.”

“It’s a question, Jake.”

“Well, then. My answer is yes, Evie. We’ll be seeing each other tonight.”

I smile, he smiles, and just like that, I’ve got a date with Jake Frost.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thirteen days until Christmas

The Ghosts by Gaslight tour meets outside the Nell of Old Drury pub, a compact building of two-toned brick and dark wood that reminds me of an old trolley car. It’s decked in a bit of greenery here, fairy lights there, and a radiant warmth that’s more about vibe than temperature. Whenever anyone comes or goes through the front door, warm air gusts out into the chilly night, smelling of wood polish and nearly two centuries of spilled beer.

I glance at my phone for the fourth time in five minutes. It’s nearly seven, and no Jake.

We’re a small group of six—two parents and their elementary-aged son, and a young couple who can’t seem to keep their hands or their mouths off each other. The tour guide is an academic-looking sort with a bald head as glossy-white as a dumpling, and a luxuriant silver mustache that quivers as he talks.

“Welcome to Covent Garden’s premier paranormal tour. My name is Dr Burgess Selby, award-winning author and London’s foremost authority on ghosts, spirits, manifestations, poltergeists, specters, phantoms, hauntings—”

Behind me there’s a scuff of shoes on pavement. The ambient warmth of a strong body. Spicy-sweet cologne that smells like sunlit citrus. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Jake.

At my ear, he murmurs, “Someone call the thesaurus police.”

His breath tickles my neck, spilling goosebumps down my arms. “Thought you’d ghosted me,” I whisper back.

Jake chuckles. “Nice one.” He shuffles forward to stand beside me, close enough that the outer part of his arm is pressed into mine. I don’t move away. Neither does he. I glance at him sideways. He’s changed out of what he was wearing this morning. Now he’s in a pair of dark straight-leg jeans and a black turtleneck sweater under a high-collared caramel corduroy jacket.

Me? I’m wearing a black wool peacoat I’ve had since college. My houndstooth mock-neck is pretty, but it’s a hand-me-down from Maddie. I think I got my jeans on clearance at Macy’s. Anyone looking at us can probably clock it instantly— I’m Levi’s; he’s Louis Vuitton.

“Tonight,” Selby continues, handing out plastic candles with screw-in nightlight bulbs at the ends, “we’ll embark upon a journey through dark courtyards and gaslit lanes, where I’ll show you the West End’s most unsettling paranormal hotspots. Guests using mobile phones during the tour will be asked to leave without a refund …”

The bulb in my candle winks on and off every time I move. I whisper to Jake, “This isn’t what I imagined when I read ‘candlelight tour.’”

The little boy in front of us whacks his against the heel of his palm. “Mine’s rubbish.’