Page 29 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

I hop down a few more steps. “Jake, wait. Did we … um—”

“You really don’t know?”

“Oh my god—”

“Evie. Breathe. We did not.” He chuckles. “I promise, if we did—you’d remember it.”

* * *

About an hour before Jake is due to come round, I’m folding laundry and singing an off-key version of “Last Christmas” by Wham! to myself when there’s a knock at the door. It’s him. An hour early.

“If you heard my singing—no, you didn’t.”

He gives me a mock stern look. “I heard some Christmas spirit happening in here, Evie.”

“Ha, ha.”

Tonight, Jake wears dark, loose denim and a chunky cream cable-knit crewneck sweater, perfect for a winter evening cruise on the Thames. But there’s something in his hand that doesn’t fit the vibe. It’s a big metal toolkit, and it looks brand-new.

I take a step backwards and let him in. “What’s this?”

“I’m going to fix your leaky sink.”

“How did you know it was leaky?”

He goes to the kitchenette and sets the toolbox down on the floor. Hands on his hips, he studies the sink for a moment, then he glances at me. “I spent the night here, remember? I noticed.”

He noticed. And now he’s going to do something about it. For me. How novel.

“I’ve tried calling the property manager about it since the day after I arrived,” I say.

Jake effortlessly lowers to a squat like his knees are hydraulic-powered. He opens the cabinet doors under the sink and shines a flashlight. “You’re used to American plumbers and American responsiveness. Here, it might be weeks before you even get a response out of the property manager.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “So you know how to fix a sink?”

Jake looks up at me and smiles. “Nope. But I watched a few YouTube videos.” He stands just as smoothly as he crouched, and before I have a chance to say anything else, he’s raising his arms high to lift his sweater over his head. Then he slips his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and sets it on the kitchenette countertop. Face-up. It’s a tiny thing, but it’s a huge green flag. Calvin had always been so secretive. I couldn’t even tell you what his phone’s wallpaper was.

Jake hands his sweater to me, and I take it from him without hesitation, like this is something we’ve done a thousand times before. “Don’t want to muck it up,” he says.

It’s still warm from his body. The feel of it in my hands makes goosebumps rise along the back of my neck. I actually have to restrain myself from pressing it to my face and breathing him in.

“You planning to supervise?” His grin is slanted, playful.

“Do you want an audience?”

Jake lowers himself to the floor again. He doesn’t answer, but he chuckles and shakes his head. I’m not sure how to interpret it.

I’ve only ever seen him in bulky knits and coats, so this is my first glimpse of what he’s got going on underneath the heavy clothing. The undershirt he wears is a pale dove gray, and trim to his body. It’s not tight, but every time he stretches forward or twists to either side, his shoulder blades ripple under the fabric. His arms are taut with lean muscle, with a few subtle veins running the length of his forearms. My catnip.

I peek around him to get a glimpse inside the toolbox. Spanners, screwdrivers, a heavy-looking claw hammer I’m almost certain has nothing to do with plumbing. Everything is brand-new, much of it still in the packaging. He bought all of it so he could do this one small thing.

For me.

* * *

So this is the Thames.

The gangway rocks gently underfoot as a boat passes by. We’re greeted onboard the small private craft by a white-gloved captain. Nearby, Tower Bridge looms over the Thames, its gothic spires underlit with festive gold and green. The river wears it like a crown.