Page 31 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“You consider your siblings’ spouses as your own siblings?”

Jake cocks his head to the side. “Don’t you?”

“Not really. My sisters are all older. They’ve got families of their own in Colorado, Texas, and one in Toronto.”

Calvin had a big family. When we were together, I felt like I was part of it. We’d meet with his parents for lunch a few times a month, and I built friendships with his sisters. Over the two years we were together, I even went on a handful of day trips and weekend overnights with them. I treasured those moments. It was the family I’d always wished for.

Once it ended, not a single one of them reached out to me.

I grieved that loss, too. But I eventually realized that to them, it wasn’t friendship. It was orientation. They’d gotten to know me as someone who might become a permanent part of their lives. Maybe, if Calvin and I had gotten married, true friendship would’ve eventually evolved over time. But ultimately, they weren’t interested in a meaningful relationship with me, Evie. They were interested in Evie, their potential sister-in-law.

And my own sisters’ spouses? I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve met them.

“Jake, what would you have done if I hadn’t come to Somerset House? You said in the note you left with Cherry and Quinn that you’d get the hint.”

He knuckles his chin. “I guess I’d have found a different coffee shop for the month.”

I look at him sideways. “Be serious.”

“Scout’s honor. If the vibes were off for you, would you really want to bump into me regularly after sending a clear signal—twice—that you weren’t interested?”

“I guess not.”

He trails the edge of his thumb along my thigh, just above my knee. “I really hoped you’d come, though.” Then he meets my eyes. “And you did.”

“You can’t possibly be real. You’re too perfect.”

“No, no. I’m a terrible cook—”

“Oh god, Jake. That’s not a real fault. It’s like when people say their biggest fault is that they care too much, or they’re a perfectionist.”

“It’s true, though,” he says. “I’m a serious problem in the kitchen. I don’t have the patience for recipes, and I don’t have that creative knack for figuring out what ingredients go nicely together. One of the reasons I exercise so much is because of how much takeout I eat.”

“I have another confession. I hate to exercise. I know I’ll regret it someday, but working out is so boring.”

“I’d argue that you just haven’t found a satisfying way to get your heart rate up.”

“Oh?” A flush of warmth unspools deep inside me. “Tell me more. What do you recommend?”

“Well, do you want to prioritize strength or stamina?” Jake keeps his expression neutral, but I can see the moment his pupils expand in his irises like spilled ink.

“Stamina is necessary for strength, wouldn’t you agree?” I sip my mulled wine, blinking over the rim of the mug. As I lower it, I slowly brush the inner edge of my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue. “Doesn’t matter how hard you can go if you can’t keep it up.”

Bullseye. Jake responds with a forceful little exhale through his nose. He swallows hard. His voice drops into a deep rumble register I haven’t heard until now. “I’ll think on it and come up with a personalized cardio plan for you, how does that sound? I have to warn you, though. I take a very hands-on approach to mentorship.”

Wind skips off the surface of the Thames, blowing across my neck, down my sweater. I set my mug aside, shivering hard. Jake leans away to grab the other blanket without letting our collective heat escape from the one on our laps. He lifts it by the corners to unfurl it in front of us, then he whips it over and back like a cloak, tucking it around our shoulders.

He turns to me and clasps my palms together, then he cups his own hands around them. His eyes are locked on mine when he brings them to his mouth, gently blowing through the small space between his thumbs, warming us both with his breath. He kisses the tender sensitive spot on the back of my hand between the first knuckles of my thumb and forefinger. At first, it’s a fleeting brush of his lips, but then he breathes deep, taking in the scent of my skin. I feel the subtle press of teeth—a sensual contrast to the tenderness he’s showing the rest of me. A delicious little hint of more.

“Better?” His body is so close, I feel the vibration of his voice in my lungs like it’s my own breath.

“Mm.” I wonder if he can hear the way my heart gallops against my ribs.

A pale white speck drifts down from the sky, slow-motion swirling, swaying. It comes to rest on Jake’s shoulder. It melts as soon as it lands, and I wonder if I imagined it. But more arrive quickly in its wake, so dense it looks like static against the black of night. The flakes are cold against my cheeks, and I can smell the mineral purity of snow.

I feel Jake’s eyes on me. He uses a fingertip to lift a thin lock of hair from my lashes. As if he’s read my mind, he says, “It’s real,” and down to the center of my bones, I know Jake Frost is going to kiss me as soon as I look away from the sky.

I’m torn between wanting it now and wanting to savor the anticipation. I’ll never experience this again. It’s the deep breath before a once-in-a-lifetime dive.