Page 20 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

He chuckles and looks away. “I suppose I assumed everyone in New York City skates in the winter. Rockefeller Center, Wollman Rink. They’re lovely.”

“Do you spend a lot of time in New York?” As soon as I say it, I cringe inwardly. We haven’t gone beyond surface-level conversation yet, and it feels presumptuous for me to disturb our casual equilibrium.

“Not as much as I used to.”

It’s a nothing answer. In a way, I’m grateful, because it means we get to continue floating comfortably at the surface. But it’s also vague enough that it ignites my curiosity like a spark on tinder. I swallow it down. “Well. I don’t subscribe to the festive-season clichés, remember?”

Jake rests his forearms on the table and cradles his cup in his hands. He stares down at it for a beat. “Bet I can change that.”

I laugh. “Jake, if Christmas in New York City isn’t enough to make me appreciate the festive season, no place will.”

For a moment his attention is riveted on my mouth, then he raises his eyes to mine. With a languid smile, he says, “Care to wager? I bet I can make you fall in love with Christmas.”

“Wait. Listen.” I point towards the speakers playing a cover of “Snow Is Falling in Manhattan.” “We’re at an iconic London spot in December, and they’re playing songs about New York. How can London be a superior festive city if it doesn’t even have its own songs? There’s ‘Bells of New York City,’ ‘First Snow on Brooklyn,’ ‘Holiday in Harlem’—”

“All right, all right,” he laughs.

“Tell me, Jake,” I tease, “how many songs about Christmas in London are there?”

His eyes are hooded, but his lips hitch sideways in an amused smile. “You’re just making me more determined.” He gets his phone out of his pocket and extends it across the table to me. “Give me your number, and we’ll start tomorrow.”

His quiet confidence is a huge turn-on. I watch him over the table with a knowing smile before taking his phone to tap in my name and number. Jake’s fingers deliberately trail over the back of my hand when I return it, and the sensation races up my arm, into my chest, throughout my belly.

“What do you get out of this?” I say.

Jake tucks his phone away. Lifts one shoulder. “The satisfaction of being right.”

I answer with a flirty shrug of my own. “Works for me.”

I can’t deny that something about this man lights me up inside. Even though I didn’t come to London to fall in love, I’m certainly willing to let Jake Frost try.

CHAPTER SIX

Eleven days until Christmas

The next morning, I wake up to a text from a UK number.

Jake:Keen to fall in love today?

Evie:You’re lucky your arrogance is charming.

Jake:Is that a yes?

Evie:Absolutely.

Jake:Brilliant. Meet me at noon in the piazza. Bring an empty tote and an appetite. I’ll handle the rest.

* * *

Jake waits for me in front of the piazza Christmas tree. In a pair of faded jeans, pebbled leather boots, and an oatmeal cardigan over a hunter-green henley, he looks like a brand ambassador for the festive season. His entire look says: countryside, but make it London luxury.

A black cab gets us to Borough Market in a little under fifteen minutes.

The London sky gleams a silvery grey, casting everything in dreamy, muted softness. There’s no rain, but when I breathe in, I can taste the damp on my tongue. Our first stop is a kiosk for mulled wine. Plumes of spiced steam hang heavy over cauldrons that burble like they’re having a chat.

“I think I’ve had my fill of mulled wine, Jake. Not sure it’s for me.”

He pauses with his wallet in his hand. “That stuff we had on the ghost tour put you off? That was a Tesco bottom-shelf red with a dash of dried cinnamon in it.” Jake breathes a little laugh through his nose. “Calling that slop mulled wine is like calling a bloody Oreo a Parisian macaron.”