Page 4 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Even if I hadn’t heard you speak,” he continues, “it’s that contradictory blend of arrogance and confusion in your eyes that gives it away.”

He’s baiting me. I look down at my phone, willing him to disappear.

“That, and the fact that your bag is the size of a Prius.”

An awkward beat of silence passes. I glance up and blink at him with a theatrical look of surprise. “Oh, you’re still here?”

He chuckles. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise. I heard Paperwhite, that’s all. It’s in Covent Garden. Piccadilly line. This time of day, though, you’ll do much better in a black cab—”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s nearly rush hour.” He nods to my bag. “Won’t make many friends with that.”

I know how mass transit works. There’s nothing London’s Tube could throw at me that I haven’t already seen a more extreme version of on the New York City subway. And if I can’t navigate the damned London Underground by myself, I’m screwed.

“I can show you the way, if you like,” he says.

“I’m fine.” I don’t look away from my phone. “Thank you.”

“Right. Well. See you later.”

That makes me glance up from my phone, but he’s already weaving away through the crowd. “Unlikely!” I shout after him.

He holds his hand in the air to wave, but he doesn’t turn around. Then, he’s gone. And here I am, about to spend December in London alone, feeling anything but festive.

CHAPTER TWO

Fourteen days until Christmas

When I wake up the next morning, it’s dark, and I’m disoriented. I hear early-morning bustle outside a nearby window. But the sounds are all wrong. Instead of the hiss of my local bus’s brakes or the hydraulic lift of the seafood truck at the Thai restaurant across my street, it’s clattering crates and the rhythmic beep of a reversing van. There’s no gentle hum of my white noise machine, and it’s the first time in years that I’ve woken up on my own instead of to the screech of an alarm. No homey scent of burnt dust from my old radiator, no trace of Maddie’s perfume drifting into my room from the hall.

Then I remember. I’m in London. My bed is more than 3,000 miles away. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

Paperwhite Holiday Home is allegedly a five-minute walk from the Underground station, but when I stumbled off the Tube last night, it took me a half hour of wandering before I found it. I barely noticed Covent Garden or the side street that’s to be my neighborhood for the rest of the month. I didn’t even turn a light on inside the flat. I locked the door behind me, stripped down to my bra and undies, and passed out on top of the duvet.

The one good thing about being here without Maddie is that I can sleep in as long as I want. She’s a pathological morning person, and I am very much not. It never matters how late we stay out, she always wakes up bright-eyed and offensively cheerful. I, on the other hand, can’t remember a time I’ve woken feeling fully rested. I would be one of the people who slept through an apocalyptic event and didn’t realize the world had ended until days later.

Just before ten o’clock in the morning, a caffeine withdrawal headache is what ultimately drags me out of bed. Downstairs, a sliver of sunlight pierces through a gap in the curtains, and I hold up my forearm over my eyes, baring my teeth at it like a vampire. This is the skin of an espresso addict, Bella.

There’s a Nespresso machine in the tiny kitchenette, but I have no actual coffee pods to put into it. I don’t know where the closest convenience store is yet, but a quick glance at a map on my phone reveals coffee shops and cafés scattered around me like confetti. The closest one is called Grey Earl’s. Cute.

After a much-needed shower, I pull on a pair of my coziest wide-legged jeans and a mint-green turtleneck sweater with balloon sleeves. Fragrant sprays of rosemary, evergreen, and winter florals bound by ribbons of crimson and gold are everywhere on my short walk through Covent Garden. Small Christmas trees in the piazza drip with metallic baubles that twinkle in the morning sun.

I’m at Grey Earl’s in a matter of minutes. Under a white-and-grey striped awning, the glass storefront is foggy with condensation, and the windows are trimmed with spruce garlands and warm white fairy lights. On the recessed wooden door hangs an enormous but simple wreath made from feathery sprays of cypress and pine.

A tiny bell sings as I go inside. Scuffed floorboards squeak beneath my feet, accompanied by the clink and tinkle of teacups and coffee mugs against their saucers. To my right, tables nestle against an exposed brick wall. The counter and a small bar take up most of the left. It’s dim inside, and everything is dark wood and pewter finishes, but the effect is intimate and cozy instead of melancholy. Mismatched Tiffany lamps cast muted colors over the bar, and strands of bistro bulbs crisscross the low ceiling.

There’s a single table in the nook in the bow window at the front of the space. Lush potted plants sit on the deep ledge and more hang from macramé slings. It would be the perfect place to sit if it wasn’t already occupied by a tall man with wavy hair the glossy gold-brown of teakwood.

The guy from the airport.

Here’s the thing about attractive men: there’s a distinct difference between handsome and hot. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. This man, though? He’s both. He’s gorgeous in that civilized British way, but with a rugged edge. Like, by day, he’s a member of some aristocratic, rain-soaked riding club, and he drinks cognac by the fireside at night. I’m convinced his family has an estate in the Cotswolds or Surrey, and he absolutely uses words like “marvelous” and “jolly” and “fetching” in everyday conversation.

“Oh my god.” It slips out louder than I meant it to. I stop just inside the doorway.

He looks up through his lashes and does a subtle double take when he sees me. Then he sits up straighter, glancing around like he’s unsure I’m talking to him. “Jake is fine, thank you.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

Today, he wears a navy-blue lobsterman’s sweater and dark jeans, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He’s lit up by a golden glow through the front window. Like the sun itself thinks his face deserves a spotlight. His hair is tucked behind his ears instead of the restrained style he wore on the plane. It looks soft.