Page 35 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Did you ever like Christmas, even as a child? Or were you born with a tiny little wisp of green Grinch hair?”

“At my aunt’s,” I say, right away. “We’d go to her house on Christmas Day. She had all these kitschy decorations from the eighties and nineties. Plastic ornaments, tinsel. You know those ceramic Christmas trees with the peg lights? I was obsessed with those. Everything was mismatched—a Ralph Lauren Christmas would never. In retrospect, I’m sure the whole house was a fire hazard,” I chuckle. “But it was magic. For me.”

“So what you’re saying is—you do like Christmas.”

“Don’t push it.” I laugh. “Tell me more about fate. That seems less complicated.”

“Ah. Instead of fate, how about we call it: choices made in parallel? Think about it—every choice we’ve made throughout our lives has led us to this moment, sitting here in this centuries-old orangery. So, to me, it seems we’ve done life in the same direction. Your choices and my choices are compatible. Complementary.”

“That’s a very lovely concept, but I’m here because Maddie abandoned me on a vacation in a city she chose with an itinerary she planned.”

“You chose Grey Earl’s, though. I call that a course-correction.”

“Well. When I stopped by Earl’s this morning, I saw a man ordering the same banana bread I do. Does that mean he and I might have compatible destinies, too?”

“Ah, but, it takes more than a single coincidence, I’d say. At the very least, before you start making wedding plans, you’ll need to ask him where he stands on whether banana bread is actual bread, or a loaf-shaped muffin.”

Giggling, I say, “That’s very wise.”

Jake reclines back on one of the floor cushions across from me with his legs outstretched, one ankle over the other. His hands rest at his waist, fingers locked. His smile slowly fades, and his eyes darken. The muscles in his throat ripple in a hard swallow. “I’m glad Maddie didn’t come.” His voice is low.

“Me too.” And I mean it.

Jake unlinks his fingers to let his hands rest on the cushion beside him. “Come here.”

I swirl the last bit of champagne around in my flute, watching it sparkle in the firelight. Lightly, I say, “Why?’

“I want to kiss you.”

“We’ve both had a few glasses of champagne. Can we trust our judgment?” I set my flute aside. The tiny tink of glass against bare stone seems to boom in the quiet space around us.

“Evie, now that I’ve started kissing you, I’m not planning to stop.”

I slowly crawl across the floor to him, keeping my gaze locked on his. The moment I’m within reach, he pulls me into his lap, and I’m straddling him, knees clamped over his thighs. His hand makes a fist in my sweater, the other palms my nape to draw my mouth down to his.

Cradling my hands around his jaw, I let my thumbs drift along his bottom lip as he kisses me. I’m desperate for more contact. I want to feel him kiss me with more than just my lips. I want to bank the sensation of it on my fingertips so I can touch my mouth months from now and remember it. Jake turns his head, skimming his teeth across my palm before burying his face into the soft flesh under my jaw. I churn against the bulge between his legs with a slow roll of my hips. The drag of my aching core against the urgent heat in his pants makes me whimper.

And this big, gorgeous man, with his mouth and teeth and tongue against the skin of my throat … whimpers back.

I could come like this. I’m rocketing towards an orgasm, and he’s barely touched me. But then he drags his mouth away from mine, grabbing me by the hips to scoot me backwards on his thighs. “Fuck.” There’s a frayed edge to his voice.

Like he had to tear the word off his tongue.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not a bloody thing.” He’s panting. “It’s good. You’re good. We’re good.” He looks me straight in the eyes as he palms his erection over the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself. He doesn’t try to hide or downplay it, and it turns me on even more. “Too good.”

I slide sideways onto a cushion beside him, and he stands.

I reach for him. “Come back, then—”

“Evie, the things I want to do with you … to you, right now—” Swiping a hand over his face, he takes a step backwards. His hand trembles as he points to the floor, like he’s accusing it of a crime. “This shouldn’t be on cold stone.”

I almost make a quip about the cushions and blankets being more than adequate for me, but the urgent look in his eyes gives me pause. And he deserves to be able to say no, just as much as I should.

There’s a sound out in the other part of the house. Jake glances at his watch. “Damn.”

“Your friend?”