Page 37 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

I pull a bra out of my luggage, and it dangles in front of me like an overcooked piece of linguine. There’s a pale orange-pink stain on one of the cups where I dripped enchilada sauce while bingeing The White Lotus shirtless on my couch. I didn’t pack a single undergarment that someone who gets naked with a man like Jake Frost would wear. Hell, this stuff couldn’t even be called lingerie. It’s a packing cube full of cotton chastity belts.

It’s not even about Jake, really. I mean—I do want him to lose his mind when he undresses me for the first time. But all evidence points to Jake losing his mind no matter what I’ve got on under my clothes. This is more about me.

I landed in London wearing a cashmere sweater I’d bought as my first true material indulgence in years. It was meant to be a sort of psychological armor—the one meaningful thing I’d allowed myself to feel fancy about. But I didn’t even make it out of LaGuardia before the damned thing was ruined. By a clumsy man. Because of course it was.

So what was meant to be a confidence booster became a mark of shame. I had to walk through the airport looking like one of those people who get so drunk when they travel they dump their airport-bar wine on themselves.

I deserve something sexy and empowering that nobody else can ruin.

I guess I’m going shopping this morning.

* * *

One thing about Jake Frost is that he pays attention.

Tonight’s date is at Miracle at Henrietta. When we reach the top of the stairs at the pop-up bar, I clap my hands together like a kid at … well, Christmas.

It’s pure, unadulterated kitsch. Every centimeter shimmers with tinsel and tiny lights and artificial garlands. Rosy-cheeked Santas and nutcracker figurines stand like merry sentinels around the space. The bartenders wear candy-striped braces and elf hats. Eartha Kitt croons “Santa Baby,” accompanied by the clink and shake of cocktails. Tables are packed in like Tetris blocks, all loaded with people. Jake and I have to squeeze onto stools at a tiny five-person bar.

All the drinks have festive names like Scrooge on the Beach and Mrs Claus’s Naughty List. I whistle low. “Boozy. Will you refuse to kiss me tonight if our judgment is impaired?”

“What if I say yes?” Jake says.

Without a word, I hop down from the stool and pretend to head towards the exit.

Laughing, Jake snags the crook of my arm, spinning me like I’m a flamenco dancer. He pulls me between his spread knees, and I let my hands settle on his shoulders. It’s exhilarating and strange, this feeling that he’s mine to touch.

“I told you last night.” He holds me around the waist. The way he’s looking at me right now might scorch my pretty new knickers to ash. “Now that I’ve started, I’m not planning to stop. Unless you want me to stop …”

Teasing, I say, “What if I say yes?”

Jake breathes a soft laugh through his nose. “You’re a right handful, you know that?”

We both order the drink called Jack Frostbite. How could we not? It’s made with RumChata, peppermint schnapps, and cream, served in a marshmallow-shaped mug that’s half as big as my head. It’s garnished with a skewered marshmallow that’s been rolled in a sweet crust of crushed candy canes.

“So, tell me.” Jake nibbles at the peppermint bits. “What is it about this sort of festive fun that gets the Evie McClane stamp of approval?”

All my aunt’s tacky decorations had origin stories. While the other adults would indulge in eggnog and card games after dinner, she’d treat me to those stories like her house was a museum and she was my personal guide. She made it real.

When I don’t respond, Jake reaches underneath my stool, hooks his hand on the wood frame, and drags me closer to him in one smooth motion. He doesn’t say anything, he simply watches my face. Waiting.

“Because there’s a beating heart beneath the spectacle of it. A wise person told me once that traditions are clichés with heart.”

Roy Orbison warbles “Pretty Paper.” Tiny sequins of light shimmer in Jake’s eyes. He tucks a knuckle along the underside of my jaw and trails his thumb along my cheekbone. Tenderly, he kisses me, his fingers easing into the wisps of hair at my temple. His tongue makes a long, lazy glide against mine.

“Steady on,” the bartender teases. “We charge a corkage fee for that.”

Jake and I laugh against each other’s mouths. He lightly rests his forehead against mine.

“What’s this, what’s this?” says a willowy olive-skinned woman weaving her way towards us. Her glossy dark hair is twisted into two short braids that end at her shoulders. She wears a Fair Isle sweater that looks like she knitted it herself, and velvet pants covered in stylized red roses. The pieces don’t match at all, but somehow, for her, it works. “How do you have time for a night at the pub? And with this lovely gem, no less? You’ve been married to your briefcase for so long.”

Jake straightens, grinning before he even turns around to face her. She grins back, hugging him around the neck. “Violet. It’s been too long,” he says.

She’s still hugging Jake when she extends a hand to me in greeting. “I’m Violet, hello.”

“Evie.” I smile back.

Of the two men who approach along with her, the one with bronze-brown skin and a rugged jaw thumps Jake on the back with one hand, extending the other to me for a shake the moment Violet lets go. “Mohammed—Violet’s husband. Friends call me Hammy.” His lashes are so devastatingly long they touch the underside of his brows when his eyes crinkle with his smile. He’s tidy and athletic, in a basic red sweater and jeans.