Page 22 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Oh my,” Maddie says when Jake turns the phone to face him. I can’t see her, but I imagine her expression is the same one she has when she’s at the pastry counter at Brooklyn Baklava, or any time Jacob Elordi is on-screen. “So you are real,” she purrs.

Jake pats around on his chest a few times, then he holds out his hand, turning it over in front of his face. “Looks that way.”

“Are you taking care of my Evie?” Maddie says.

“As much as she’ll allow, though I’d argue she doesn’t need taking care of.”

“That’s a five-star answer. Is she being grumpy about Christmas?”

“Still standing right here.” I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. When I look up again, he’s not looking at the phone—he’s looking at me, wearing a barely there smile. I swear there’s a tinge of smugness in it, too. “You could say that.”

“She’s basically Ebenezer Scrooge without the money,” Maddie continues. “Or the Grinch with a better skincare routine.”

“Point of order,” I say. “The Grinch and Scrooge were created by their circumstances.”

“Think I can change her mind?” He’s still looking at me when he answers Maddie.

“If you figure it out, please share. I can say, though, that if she starts ranting about capitalism or the inherent performativity of the holidays, get a peppermint latte in her hands right away. She’ll calm down for at least an hour. Peppermint only, though. Peppermint mochas are too sweet, they give her a headache.”

“All noted,” Jake says.

“Tell her to call me tonight when she gets back to Paperwhite.”

Jake nods. “Why does she not like—”

I lean over his arm to put my face in front of the screen. “We have to go. Food awaits.”

Jake starts to pass the phone back to me, but Maddie says, “Jake, wait.” When he pauses, she says, “You’re not a murderer, are you?”

He replies with one of his slanted smiles. “Only on the dance floor.”

Throughout the rest of the day, we share nearly everything without hesitation. I have my first sausage roll (life-altering), a Scotch egg (not for me), and divine Prosecco with fresh oysters eaten straight from their shells. The salt beef sandwich Jake and I share rivals the best corned beef sandwiches I’ve had in New York. I get a cup of Italian olives so vibrantly green they could be strung together to make a Christmas garland. I use a toothpick to eat them as we walk, and when I offer one to Jake, he declines, grimacing. “Mother Nature’s failed first attempts at cherries,” he says.

By the end of our Borough Market adventure, I have a bag full of treasures. Mulled wine spices in pre-made packs, a two-pound bag of black licorice, a jar of orange-ginger chutney to have with cheese. Before we head back to Covent Garden, we hop into a coffee shop near the market. After standing all day, it’s blissful to sit. With my flat white, I get a slice of banana bread topped with candied walnuts tossed in grainy salt to contrast with the sweetness.

I hold up a forkful and say, “Why do we call this bread, anyway?”

Jake turns his mug slowly in his hands. “Ah, one of the critical questions of our time.”

“It’s basically a big loaf-shaped muffin. You know?”

He makes an academic-sounding hum in the back of his throat. “Loaf-shaped equals bread, no?”

“So, we define it based on its outside appearance instead of what it’s made of?”

“Ah, so you’re a bread existentialist.” Jake rubs his chin.

“Well, a few people have told me I look like a brunette Anya Taylor-Joy, but I’m not exactly in high demand by Hollywood casting directors.”

“I see.” Jake nods slowly. “So, you’re saying banana bread is like … I’m not actually bread, I just play one on television? That sort of thing?”

“You get it. I guess, though, by that logic, meatloaf is bread.”

“Meat …” Jake tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes. “… loaf? The singer?”

I laugh. “No, the food. You’ve never had it?”

“I’m not ashamed to admit that I have not.”