Page 28 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Outside Paperwhite, Jake stands behind me as I key in. When I turn to him to say goodnight, I sway into him like a sapling in a storm. He lets me use his body to steady myself, hands hovering at the dip of my waist. Our bellies and hips connect, and when Jake’s palm settles against my lower back, it’s slow, deliberate. He looks me in the eyes as he does it. The touch is light enough that I could move away if I wanted to. He breathes so deep his chest and shoulders visibly rise. The heat of his exhale floods my temples, my cheeks, my mouth.

“I got some fond glances from you tonight, Jake.”

“Makes sense. I’m quite fond of you.”

My heart pounds so hard my pulse bangs against the underside of my jaw. “And there was some handholding.”

Jake doesn’t budge when I trace the tip of my nose up the side of his neck.

“Christ, woman—that’s a cold nose.” His body tenses against mine. He runs his fingertips up my arms and cups his hands on my shoulders.

“Almost a proper date, wouldn’t you say?” I let my nose bump against his jaw.

His big exhale clouds the cold night air. “You’re a bit, ah … elevated at the moment, love.”

I rest my forehead against his sternum. I’m surrounded by the heat and scent of him. Body heat and fine wool and the homey, mingled scents of the pubs. I know it doesn’t make sense, but he’s familiar. Safe. It’s like my body recognizes something my logical mind isn’t capable of yet. A seventh sense, and it’s tuned exclusively to Jake Frost.

I raise my head to reach up and fiddle with his collar. “I bet that bartender would’ve kissed me goodnight.”

“I think that bloke wanted a bit more than a kiss from you.” Jake’s throat clenches in a painful-looking swallow. “But you don’t want him, Evie.”

“How do you know?”

With his finger bent, he nudges my chin up so I meet his eyes. Then he straightens to his full height and takes a step back, putting his mouth well out of range of mine. But he has to grit his teeth to do it. “Because I’ve seen the way you look at someone you do want.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nine days until Christmas

I slept in my clothes last night. A reluctant glance in the mirror reveals that I’ve gone full-on bog witch. I might have to cut my hair out of my braid. I yawn loudly, and as soon as my feet touch the floor, I hear a man’s voice from downstairs.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Jake.

“Yes. Good. Well.” The words come out more like a croak than human speech.

“You sound like you might be lying to me, love.” The bottom step squeaks. “Do you need help?”

“Respectfully, I would rather try to swim to the moon than have you see me right now.”

Every step of Paperwhite’s stairs is a key on a poorly tuned piano that only plays tortured creaking sounds. “Are you sure?”

I really don’t want him to see me like this, but my desire to see him wins out. Throwing back the curtain on the landing, I call down to him. “Jake. Wait.”

He’s halfway up the stairs, still in the clothes he was wearing last night. He has the most charming, chaotic bedhead I’ve ever seen.

Quietly, I say, “Why did you stay?”

He does the thing where he tilts his head sideways as he studies my face. Actual golden retriever behavior. “I didn’t want you taking a tumble down the stairs.”

“How would you stop me falling down the stairs … from the bottom of the stairs?”

“Who says I slept downstairs?”

I swallow hard. I have a misty memory of trying to kiss him at the end of the night, but he backed away. I don’t have any memory of him joining me in bed.

Hand on the railing, Jake takes a step down. “Now that I know you’re alive and well, I’ll be off. I’ll be back around four o’clock. Dress warm. We’ll be on the river tonight.”