Page 43 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Jake slaps two fingers against the face of his wristwatch. “Time, Evie. It’s time. The only way you can know if something lasts is by giving it time. Calling something temporary without giving it time is like …” He waves his hand around in front of him. “Like making a batch of banana bread batter, pouring it into the loaf tin, and then walking away from it on the worktop, saying, ‘Well, bugger it, I guess we’re not eating banana bread tonight.’”

I reach across the table with my fork to steal another bite of his mushy peas. “Nice work bringing banana bread into a completely unrelated conversation.”

“See? Evie-Jake lexicon.”

I stare down at my plate. “We don’t have time for time, Jake. I’m leaving in ten days.”

He sets his fork on the edge of his plate. “Sorry—are you going to the moon, or New York City?”

I shoot him a bored glare. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually. There are these contraptions called planes—”

I chuckle. “You’re an ass.”

“—and video calls, and texts—”

“OK, OK. Stop.” I try to look stern, but my chin wobbles and tears well. “Point taken.”

“All I’m saying is—” Jake reaches across the table to take my hand, smoothing his thumb over my knuckles. “I don’t think we need to decide where this is going right now. We can simply enjoy it for what it is.”

We huddle under the umbrella on the walk back to Jake’s. He’s got an arm around me, tucked under my coat with a thumb through the belt loop of my jeans to keep me close. Through every storefront and pub door that opens and closes, warm air smelling of pine candles and gingerbread and the smoky char of roasts and winter veggies wafts over us, mingling with the crystalline cold of the rain. An older man bumps our umbrella with his as we pass in opposite directions, saying, “Terribly sorry, loves. Happy Christmas!” The response is so different than anything I’ve ever experienced in New York, I instantly soften. This is a river of merriment and goodwill, and I’m caught in its current.

My hinges have been rusted closed for so long, they ache now that they’re trying to open. But I can’t deny it. I’m falling in love with London.

I might even be falling in love with Christmas.

And I think, most worrying of all—I think I’m falling in love with Jake Frost.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Six days until Christmas

When we get back to Jake’s building, the power has been cut by the force of the storm, so we can’t take the elevator. The steps have a dim glow from emergency track lighting, but he’s also got his phone out, shining the light upwards so I can see the stairs. I start to shiver. The rain has drenched me through despite the best efforts of the umbrella.

The building is only four stories high, but I’m slightly winded. I don’t think Jake’s heart rate has climbed a single tick. Behind me, he says conversationally, “Oh, by the way, did I ever mention? I’m a lawyer.” His voice echoes in the stairwell.

I smile in the darkness and play along. “Oh, really? That’s very interesting.”

“I’m one of the good ones.”

“Even better.”

Once we’re inside, his face is barely visible, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he continues. “Ah, by the way—I live in a Covent Garden penthouse. I don’t spend much time there, though. Trying to sell it, actually. Would love to give you a tour someday, but it’s having a bit of an electricity problem right now—”

Gently, I say, “Jake.”

“Mm?”

“That was a very nice redo. Thank you.”

His tone softens. “Thank you for giving me the chance to do it.”

Chilly air swirls around me as he moves closer. I shiver so hard I make a weird, involuntary noise in my throat.

“Are you good?” Jake draws me in, drifting his fingers up the sides of my neck to cup my cheeks. My chattering teeth rattle my jawbone against his hands. “Goddamnit, you’re frozen stiff.”

“P-p-paperwhite probably has power. We can go there—”