Page 32 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Look at me.” Jake’s warm baritone lands in the deepest, hungriest places inside me.

I swallow hard. Lower my chin. And I face him.

He comes in easy, cuffing his hands around the sides of my neck. He nudges the pads of his thumbs against my chin to tip my head back, pausing to meet my eyes. I taste him in the air the moment before he presses his gorgeous lips to mine.

At first, it’s gentle. A tentative exploration of this new Evie and Jake we’ve just become. His tongue lightly traces the inner seam of my top lip, and I meet him with mine.

We kiss in a shared dialect. He opens for me and I open for him, echoing the glide of his jaw and the hot, slow slip of his tongue against mine. Our mouths have an agenda of their own. One of his hands thrusts into my hair, the other glances up my leg, fingertips digging into the curve of my ass to half-lift, half-drag me into his lap. He’s hard and ablaze with urgent heat against the tender underside of my thigh.

Most people realize when they’re experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime event. Logically, your brain knows it’s special, and temporary, and it should be savored. When I kiss Jake, I feel it. I’m also painfully aware that this isn’t going to be enough. It feels like the first hit of an addiction I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life.

* * *

As we disembark, the captain says to us, “Congratulations, sir. Madame.”

Jake nods to the man with a quiet “Thank you” as he runs his fingers through his hair. He’s delightfully mussed. When I look at him in question, he says, “Ah … I might have bent the truth a bit to be able to get a booking for us at the last minute.”

“Tell me.”

His laugh is a gentle, comfortable sound. “I told them I was planning to propose to you.”

God, I’m in so much trouble. It’s not real, obviously, but the words land with a heavy thud in my hungry little heart even as my mind registers the absurdity of it. “Clever.”

As we walk down the pier, Jake reaches for my hand. He drifts the pads of his fingers over the sensitive tips of my own before locking his palm against mine.

Later, when Jake kisses me goodnight outside Paperwhite, he says, “Five o’clock tomorrow, I’ll pick you up here. This one won’t be about Christmas, though. This one will be about us.”

I hover by the door to watch him go. He pauses just before the bend in the street, glancing back before he disappears. There’s something here between us, but whatever it is feels nervous and small. Like if I look right at it, I’ll scare it off. But it is real. And I have a feeling that before this month is over, it will have grown big enough to hurt when it’s time for me to go.

CHAPTER NINE

Eight days until Christmas

This one will be about us.

That’s what Jake said last night. I think “us” is one of my new favorite words. Two tiny letters with tremendous meaning. I know he’s said his goal is to make me fall in love with Christmas in London. And if I’m honest with myself, he’s succeeding. But the reason I’m falling in love with Christmas in London is because I’m getting to experience it with him.

Jake arrives at Paperwhite at five o’clock on the dot. When I swing open the door, he stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. It’s one of those quintessentially British hip-length field jackets made of waxed cotton. The color is the rich, ruddy-brown of fresh tobacco, and he’s paired it with a loosely draped scarf in a subtle check pattern of rust, cream, and mossy green. How many coats does one person need? And since when do I find coats sexy?

“I have to know.” I reach out and briefly rub the end of the scarf with my fingers. “Do you have a personal stylist?”

“Good evening to you, too.” Jake glances down to watch me touch the scarf, then he looks back to me, eyes glittering. “A what?”

“A stylist. Someone who buys your clothes for you. Tells you what to wear based on your features, your palette. You dress better than most men I’ve ever seen. And I live in the fashion capital of the world.”

“No stylist. Just impeccable taste.” As he says taste, he glances briefly at my lips. “I suppose I appreciate quality. I prefer to invest in things that last.”

Jake keeps his gaze latched onto mine as he says it. There are fathoms of subtext in his expression, and in this moment, I learn something new about myself. Eye contact like this is my favorite kind of flirtation. He’s not only seeing me—it’s like he’s welcoming me in to see him.

I do a double take when I see what’s parked on the street behind him. Metallic navy blue, gleaming clean, its engine purring with a throaty rumble. I don’t know much about cars, but I recognize a luxury ride when I see one. “What’s this?” I say.

“It’s—” Jake circles around to open the passenger-side door for me. “A car?”

“Is it yours?”

A faint smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Last I checked.”

“Are you serious right now? I feel like I need to take off my shoes first.”