Page 18 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Enzo, my best friendzo.” Jake’s voice lifts a little higher. Softer, too.

“She’s there,” another child says. “I heard her voice. You don’t have to be sad anymore.”

“Ah—” Jake says on a laugh.

I pin my smile between my teeth. Jake watches me with hooded eyes. His cheeks are flushed in the glow of the phone screen. From the cold, surely.

“Let us see her, then,” comes a woman’s voice.

Jake raises a brow at me in question, lifting the phone a smidge. He looks uncertain.

I peek over the screen and say, “Hello.”

The woman on the screen looks to be about my age, with coppery-red hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Two young boys peer over her shoulder. “Oh, you are lovely,” she says.

Jake sighs. “This is my sister Imogen and my nephews Felix and Enzo. Genny, this is Evie.”

I wave, leaning closer to Jake to whisper, “Shame on you for involving children in your charm campaign.”

“Ah, so you do think I’m charming,” he whispers back.

“Are you enjoying London?” Genny says.

“So far.” I glance up at Jake. “There’s a strange man who seems to turn up everywhere I go, though.”

The boys giggle. Genny plays along. “Tall? Bit posh, but still sweet?”

“Mm-hmm. Sounds like the one.”

“Very nice hair? Gets weepy about Christmas?”

“Definitely the nice hair.” Playfully, I tap my finger on my chin. “Haven’t seen any tears yet, but I’m optimistic.”

We share a laugh.

“Jake?” Genny says. As Jake peers at the screen over my shoulder, she says, “Well done.” He laughs, and some of the tension eases out of him.

“And Evie?” Genny’s smile is gentle and warm now. “Do enjoy London. You couldn’t ask for a better guide.”

* * *

Walking through the archway into Somerset House’s courtyard feels like stepping onto the set of a big-budget Christmas movie. Pale stone architecture is washed in pastel floodlights. Laughter and the sound of skates scraping ice accompany a classic version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” There’s a refreshments lounge along the far side of the rink where people sit at tables overlooking the ice. They’ve got a front-row seat for when I inevitably bust my ass.

Once we’ve put our skates on and stepped onto the ice, it’s clear Jake is a natural. Hands in his pockets, shoulders level, back straight, it’s like he’s on a casual stroll instead of balancing his tall frame over narrow metal blades on a surface as slick as greased glass.

Me? This is, apparently, my first day with legs. I’m going to be that person in the background of photos and videos. They’ll zoom in on my horrified “oopsie” face and get a good chuckle at it. Maybe I’ll even become a meme in their group chats.

Jake pulls ahead as soon as we hit the ice, but he notices right away that I’m not with him. He glides back to me and stops by snapping his feet sideways to scrape a fine puff of powder from the ice. He makes it look effortless.

I glance from his feet to his face. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

He grins. “Haven’t found anything yet. But there’s plenty I haven’t tried.”

With a death grip on the wall, I tip my head back and laugh. “Wow.”

“Is that wow, what an exceptional human specimen, or wow, he’s all the way up his own arse?”

“Neither,” I laugh. “I was impressed at how you managed to be confident and modest about it at the same time.”