Page 16 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Again, I laugh. “It’s not that deep. Materialism, hyperconsumerism, commercialism—”

Jake sucks a breath past his teeth. “Oof. So many isms.”

I’m suddenly hit with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Wow, so sorry.” I straighten my shoulders.

“Go,” he says. “I won’t keep you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jake.”

I only make it five steps before he calls out behind me. “Evie.’ He still stands in the same spot. “Let me show you Christmas in London. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.”

“Jake—”

“Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide now. But if you’re keen, meet me at Grey Earl’s tomorrow round ten in the morning. If not, I’ll get the hint and I’ll make myself scarce.” He gives me an unguarded smile, lays a hand over his heart, and does a little half-bow as he steps backwards. “Either way, tonight was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Twelve days until Christmas

“Evie, it’s Cherry.”

I mean to mutter “Hi,” but it comes out as “Hnnngh.”

“From the coffee shop,” she adds.

It’s very sweet that she thinks there might be anyone else in London named Cherry who would be calling me right now. I roll over and crack my eyelids open, but it’s still dark outside. Then I drop my phone on my face. “Ow.”

“You all right? Been trying to reach you for hours. There’s a letter for you here at the café.”

A letter?

“Like, mail?” I sit up on my elbows and squint at the digital display of the alarm clock on the bedside table. It reads 4:32. “And why are you telling me this at four thirty in the morning?”

“Because it’s four thirty in the afternoon.”

Meet me at Grey Earl’s tomorrow round ten in the morning. If not, I’ll get the hint and make myself scarce.

Oh, no.

* * *

“Jake asked for your number,” Cherry says.

“He begged,” Quinn adds. “I couldn’t decide if it was sexy or pathetic.”

Cherry makes a thoughtful face. “I mean … pathetic can be hot.”

“Depends on the context,” Quinn says. “Pathetic because of insecurity? Pass. Pathetic because of yearning? Smash.”

“I didn’t give it to him, by the way,” Cherry says. “Your number.”

I run my fingers along the envelope. The paper is faintly textured, and it feels heavy. Expensive. “When was he here?”

“Arrived around half nine,” Quinn says.

“Stayed till half twelve,” says Cherry.

“Came back just after two o’clock with that letter.”