Page 34 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Any good memories?”

“Well, I loved being outdoors. Does that count?” I tell him about how I spent more time in nature than inside. How soft clover and moss were my sun-warmed carpet, the sky my only roof. I tell him about exploring woodland nooks and wild meadows, and the creek that ran through them both. I tell him about scooping crayfish into empty pickle jars and catching tadpoles with my cupped hands, and how, every June, I’d stuff my face with the serviceberries that grew at the forest edge. I never feared the bees, or the spiders, or being the only tiny human amidst acres and acres of wild, rolling green.

“Sounds a lot like where I grew up.” Jake’s smile is whimsical. “We don’t have serviceberries in the Cotswolds, though. For us, it was wild blackberries. Spent most of August with my hands stained purple. Rode my bike everywhere. That old rustbucket was my pride and joy. I spent so long in the stream every day in the summer, my fingers and toes would turn wrinkly. Not many other kids around, so my sisters and brother were my best mates. Might be why we’re still so close now.”

This makes me like him that much more, knowing that not only does he love his family, but that he also grew up the same sort of woodland urchin I did. I can’t help but wonder about the person I’d be if I’d had the same supportive family he had.

“You all right?” Jake says, softly.

“Why me, Jake? Really. Why am I here with you?”

“I told you, you’re lovely when you frown.”

It’s hardly a moving declaration of romcom-worthy insta-love. Not that I’m looking for that. But so much of what he says and does seems straight out of the pages of a romance book.

Logically, I know this is fantasy, but every day I spend with him makes me feel safer and increasingly free to indulge in it. And just maybe, reality could be like this. It should be like this.

“You said that to me at Earl’s.”

“I did. It wasn’t the first time I thought it, though.”

For a moment, I wait for him to give me additional context, but he doesn’t. “OK?”

“The first time I saw you, you were at the gate before boarding. In New York. You were writing in a notebook.”

I still don’t get it. I frown.

Playfully, he points at my face and says, “There. Just like that.”

Laughing, I say, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I swear it, Evie,” he says. “Everyone else was scrolling a phone or had their face in a laptop or tablet screen, so you stood out. You were all-in on whatever you were doing. Frowning. And I thought to myself—if she’s that lovely when she scowls,” his voice drops a bit softer, “her smile would probably ruin my life.”

The very smile he’s waxing poetic about falters before it collapses entirely. Before Jake Frost, if someone had said that to me, regardless of how gorgeous and charming they were, I’d have laughed in their face. But this isn’t a man who says things he doesn’t mean.

Jake knuckles his chin and looks away. “And then, when I saw you in the airport after we landed, you reminded me of someone.”

“Who?”

“Myself. When I first came to London, I didn’t want to be here, either.”

“That’s a pretty loaded statement. You can’t say something like that without giving extra context.”

“Ah, let’s just say, you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”

“And now?”

His eyes meet mine and hold them. “I’m quite glad I did. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

“Oh god,” I laugh, “don’t tell me you believe in fate.”

Jake chuckles. “No.”

I wiggle my fingers, pantomiming falling snow. “Christmas miracles, then?”

He smirks. “Can’t pass up a chance to be snarky about Christmas, can you?”

I raise and lower my shoulders in a melodramatic sigh. “I am who I am, Jake.”