Page 25 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Jake:Meet me at our spot near the tree in the piazza at 6 p.m. tomorrow?

Evie:Since when do we have an “our spot”?

Jake:Since now. See you tomorrow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ten days until Christmas

Tonight, Jake is taking me to two historic Covent Garden pubs. First, the Lamb and Flag, and after, The Cross Keys. Two stops hardly count as a pub crawl, but that’s what we’re calling it for our fourth Advent date.

I still haven’t gotten over my ruined cashmere sweater, but one thing my wardrobe is prepared for is a night of lots of sitting and lots of eating. I wear high-waisted wide-leg jeans with plenty of give, and a slouchy indigo sweater. I pull my hair into a side braid, add a bit of mascara to the tips of my lashes and a swipe of matte berry lipstick, and I’m ready.

The Lamb and Flag is just a few minutes’ walk from the piazza, nestled at the back of a narrow side street. There’s a short line at the door, but Jake takes my hand and politely maneuvers us through since we have a reservation.

It’s a gentle touch, fingers against fingers, palms barely touching. The skin-to-skin contact itself isn’t what sets my pulse to racing, though—it’s how casually and confidently he took my hand in his. Like it’s a natural thing we’ve always done and will always do. I feel flushed, heavy-limbed, loose-jointed.

Inside, the atmosphere is dim and decidedly Victorian. We’re seated in a small windowless alcove behind the bar, at one of two wooden booths adjacent to a small fireplace. We order drinks—cider for Jake, white wine for me—and fresh sourdough with Guinness butter as a starter. The first nibble actually makes me moan out loud. Jake pauses with his cider halfway to his mouth, a brow boosted high. Then he closes his eyes and drains a third of the glass in one go. It makes me feel sexy and powerful, and it sets a simmer deep in my belly.

We order our meals—a steak and ale pie for me, roasted sea bass for Jake. I assume this is the night we’ll finally dive beneath the surface in our conversation, but he opens with a relatively safe but unsatisfying topic—my job.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” I say. “My undergrad was environmental science, and I went on to get a graduate degree in environmental journalism once I realized the only thing I loved more than being out in nature was writing about it and sharing it with others.”

Our meals arrive, and we eat while we talk. I tell Jake about The Juniper, and how my boss told me that the sarcasm bleeding into my work undermined my credibility. How it was beneath me. Oscar Wilde allegedly said sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, which—fair. But once you’ve poured your heart and soul and intellect into a losing battle for so long, you inevitably start running on the fumes of cynicism instead of the fiery fuel of ambition and hope, you know? So, to the late Mr. Wilde and my erstwhile boss, I say: Hand me a shovel, boys, because I’m probably going to go lower.

Jake runs his thumb along the condensation on the outside of his glass. “I guess the fact that you’re on a month-long break from work means it’s not going well?”

“Well, I was fired, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Really. I’ve written more in the past few months than I did for the last year at The Juniper, and I’ve sold some of it freelance. The money is terrible, but being able to write what I want, how I want? Priceless.”

“I envy you, actually. A chance to start over is a gift, even when it doesn’t seem like it at first.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” I say.

“Just feeling a bit stuck at the moment. Can’t quite see my way out yet.”

“Well, then. I highly recommend getting fired. The technique is pretty straightforward. Lean heavily into your own moral convictions, harness your anger about how broken the system is, then blatantly disregard the advice and disciplinary warnings given to you by your superiors.” I take a sip of wine and make a little pop noise with my mouth after I swallow. “Done.”

“I like your style,” Jake says.

“Will you tell me more about what you do?”

He drags his bottom lip through his teeth, and we watch each other for a long beat.

“I’m a lawyer.” He says it like an apology. Wryly, he adds, “But I’m in recovery.”

“I thought you worked for a nonprofit?” I say.

Jake sits back. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “I never said I worked for a nonprofit. I said I do nonprofit work.”

“Ah. Spoken like a true lawyer.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Fair.” And then he just … shuts down.

“Where did you just go?” The Jake across the table from me right now isn’t the Jake I’ve gotten to know over the last few days. This Jake is tightly wound and withholding. I see it in the set of his jaw, the tiniest narrowing of his eyes, the way he folds and unfolds his napkin on his lap. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to get to know you, Jake.”