Page 17 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Groaning, I lean over to press my forehead against my stacked hands on the bar.

“What’s wrong?” they both say.

“I was supposed to meet him here at ten this morning.” My voice is muffled. “I overslept.”

“You slept past four o’clock in the afternoon?” Cherry says.

“I’m jet-lagged, OK?”

“Well, no undoing that now. Open the bloody letter, Evie,” Quinn says. “I’m invested.”

I open the envelope and carefully pull out the folded paper inside. The writing is tidy, with letters of uniform size and shape. Slanted slightly to the right, and every letter T has an asymmetrical tail that suggests forward momentum. The words and sentences are near-perfectly parallel to the ones above and below them, even though there aren’t any lines on the paper itself.

God, even this man’s handwriting is attractive.

I suppose I stretched the truth a bit when I said I’d get the hint if you didn’t show at ten this morning. I hope this letter isn’t an overstep. If you’d like to give me a chance to show you London at Christmas, I’ll be at Somerset House for ice skating at six o’clock tonight. I’ll be near the central arch, waiting.

J.

* * *

It takes me around ten minutes to walk to Somerset House, but navigating through pedestrians along the Strand makes progress feel agonizingly slow. Now that I’ve decided that I want to spend time with Jake and already missed one chance, I’m anxious I’ll miss my last.

I arrive at 5:58, and despite the crowd, I see Jake as soon as I approach the three grand arches that lead into the Somerset House courtyard. He stands at the middle, backlit by kaleidoscopic lights. My pulse picks up, my hands start to feel clammy inside my gloves.

He doesn’t notice me at first because he’s smiling down at his phone. His cream cable-knit sweater looks heavy and expensive, and he’s wearing a knitted hat, making waves of his hair swoop out behind his ears and at his nape. When I look at him, my entire nervous system feels like it lights up like a theater marquee.

God. This is going to ruin me.

My feet scuff the pavement as I approach, and he looks up from his phone. His face breaks into a relieved, almost boyish smile as I approach. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” I hold out my hands, palms up.

His expression shifts, eyes widening, brows pulling together. His lips tighten in playful mock concern. “How was the walk along the Strand? Did you manage to evade the Christmas spirit? Dodge any stealth mistletoe?”

Matching his energy, I frown and nod. “It was dicey at first, but I managed to avoid decking any halls or jingling any bells. The dancin’ and prancin’ almost got me, though.”

“Whew.” He nods, exhaling like he’s relieved. The heat of his breath makes a little swirl in the air in front of him. “Thought I’d been ghosted, you know.”

“Be serious. You’ve never been ghosted in your life.”

“You ghosted me this morning.” His eyes glitter as he looks down at me. As merry and bright as any of the twinkling lights along the Strand.

“I wanted to come. I remember reading that if we don’t decide to rest when we need it, our bodies decide for us. I guess my body decided for me. I didn’t wake up until after four.”

“Always a good idea to listen to our bodies.” His tone makes my face and ears flare so hot I’m surprised a halo of steam doesn’t poof around me in the chilly air.

Jake’s phone is still face-up in his hand. A flash of long, curly red hair moves past the screen, but I can’t make out any more details. Then I hear a child blow a long, wet raspberry.

My insides clench. Does Jake have kids?

He blinks a few times, then he squeezes his eyes shut. “Ah, shit, sorry. I was just having a chat about Christmas plans—”

“Of course. Please.” I wave my hand and turn sideways. The very picture of nonchalance.

A second later, a tiny voice comes through the phone’s speaker. “Uncle Jake!”

Uncle. What a gorgeous word.