Page 36 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Jake thrusts a hand into the front of his hair and squeezes. When he lets go, the waves spring out in all directions. “He gave us until nine.”

I stand and Jake pulls me against him. I tuck my hands into the back pockets of his pants. “Wouldn’t he let us stay a tiny bit longer?”

The look he gives me is comical. “You haven’t met Bowen.”

Later, when Jake drops me off at Paperwhite, he says, “My Christmas charm campaign is back on tomorrow. But we’re definitely ending the night on something horizontal and soft.”

CHAPTER TEN

Seven days until Christmas

It’s eleven in the morning. It’s only six in New York City right now, but I don’t hesitate to call Maddie. The little chalkboard next to the paperwhite pot catches my eye as I wait for her to answer. It’s been days since I changed the countdown number. I tip it face-down.

The first thing Maddie says is, “You look sad.”

“Worse. I’m sad and horny.”

“Sigh.” Maddie says the word out loud instead of sighing. She yawns expansively. “Listen, you’re there to get un-sad, not end up with another guy to be sad about later.”

“Might be too late. And this was your idea, by the way.”

“Ev, my idea was for you to get smashed like a pinkie toe in a room full of table legs. And see pretty Christmas sights. And then come home, unburdened.”

My vagina is a one-way road to my heart. Or maybe my heart is the shortcut to my vagina. Who knows—the mapmaker is a pain in my ass. Regardless, I don’t think Jake Frost is the sort of man Maddie had in mind for me when she storyboarded my cheeky, mindless fling.

Maddie rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. “Whenever you might be having an emotion, try to think about all the ways he could fail the relationship tests. Like, have you even seen his feet yet? Have you sat in close proximity while he eats soup?”

I know she’s being funny, but I’m already so far gone about Jake Frost, he could slurp soup next to me, barefoot, and I’d think it was charming.

“Remember that strawberry farm we went to last spring? Imagine finishing a perfect, sun-warmed strawberry, and then you learn that for the rest of your life, you’ll only be able to get those sour half-white ones from a bodega that smells like burnt coffee and cat pee.”

“You need to find a different bodega, baby.” Maddie stretches.

“He does the thing,” I moan. “The fingers thing.”

“I need specifics. There are so many fingers things, Ev.”

“The fingertips on the small of my back thing.”

Maddie gasps and sits up. “He doesn’t.”

“I swear.”

Calvin used to open doors for me. On the surface, that seems like the gentlemanly thing, right? But he’d stand partially inside doorways and usher me through with a hand between my shoulder blades. Not tender. Not protective. It always made me feel off-balance, rushed. It’s such a minor thing, but it’s the minor things that compound like emotional debt, isn’t it? And debts always come due, sometimes with a heap of resentment and pain as interest.

Everywhere we’ve gone together, Jake has done the fingertip thing. No pressure, no nudging. Simply five tiny points of contact between my body and his. More symbolic than anything. It says, We’re doing this thing together. I’m here.

I tell Maddie about Jake’s other green flags. She sighs. “Disgusting. He’s perfect.”

“Well, you’re forgetting one very important thing.”

Maddie groans and throws her duvet over her face. “I swear to god, a literal angel could fly down from heaven, and say, Hello Evangeline, we’ve created a bespoke perfect man for you, and you’d look at the angel and be like”—she makes her voice nasally and obnoxiously high-pitched—“define ‘perfect.’ But do go on, tell me what makes Jake Frost less than perfect after you’ve just spent five minutes telling me all the ways he is.”

“He’s in London.” I rub my forehead with my free hand. “Thousands of miles away from New York.”

“Evie,” Maddie says gently. “Right now, so are you.”

* * *