Page 44 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Does Paperwhite have a bathtub?”

“What?” I’m shaking so hard now, the muscles in my neck ache. “N-no.”

“Then I have a better idea.”

Jake retrieves a flashlight from a cabinet in his kitchen—though he calls it a torch, which I find adorable—to lead me to the bathroom. From what I can tell in the narrow beam of light, it’s ivory marble everywhere, with a freestanding pedestal tub. A separate glass shower with a curved bench along the wall stands opposite the tub, occupying at least a quarter of the room.

Like the other parts of the flat, there’s no sign that anyone lives here. But it smells like Jake here, and it’s instantly comforting and grounding.

He switches on the tub’s faucet. Steam boils into the air in a dense cloud, and he pours in a tiny splash of oil that smells like lavender and some sharper green herb.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, disappearing into the adjacent room. The bedless bedroom, I assume. He’s only gone for thirty seconds or so. He hustles back into the bathroom, dropping an armful of heavy candles on the vanity. Each one makes a loud thunk as it hits the marble. Jake lights them quickly, filling the room with luscious soft light. Then he disappears again.

It feels like my body has given up on trying to warm itself.

Jake is back after a few seconds, carrying a plush white towel so big it could double as a throw blanket. He hangs it over a rack built into the wall next to the tub. When he turns to me, he looks apologetic. “Towel warmer won’t work without the power on.” He makes a fist and cups his other hand around it, glancing around like a fretting innkeeper. Gesturing to the tile, he says, “Ah, the floors are heated by the boiler. You’ll feel it once you get your socks off—”

I’m frozen in place, and it’s not only because of the chill. After six years of college, then living in a Queens studio post-graduation, it’s been at least ten years since I’ve taken a bath. It’s been at least twice that long since someone ran one for me. “Jake—”

“Christ, I’m sorry—” He shoves his fingers through his wet hair. “You’re freezing, and I’m blathering on.” He backs towards the door. I’ve never seen him rattled like this.

My teeth chatter so hard, it’s difficult to speak. “It’s n-not that.”

“What is it?” Jake says. “I’ll close the door, you’ll have total privacy—”

Cold rain batters the bathroom’s skylight so hard it sounds like we’re inside a giant snare drum. The big mirror over the sink reflects the candlelight, doubling the glow through the steam-cushioned air. Flames flicker in polished chrome surfaces and the creamy shine of the floor tiles.

“It’s really nice. Being taken care of,” I say.

I’m sure a lot of people would think it’s impossible to fall for someone in only a few days. But those people have never met a person like Jake Frost.

He steps back into the room to shut off the tub faucet. On a big exhale he goes still. Sure of himself again. “Thank you for giving me the chance to do it,” he says for the second time tonight.

Scented steam clouds the air around us, fogging the skylight, glazing the chrome and glass and mirrors. Rainwater drips from the wavy tips of his hair. Each tiny tick hitting the tile sounds like a timer counting down. Before he turns to leave, Jake cups my face in icy hands and presses a quick kiss against my forehead. “In you get, then. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

It feels awkward to leave my clothes in a sodden pile on the floor of a luxury penthouse bathroom, but the chill in my bones overrides whatever hang-ups I have. I’m climbing into the tub less than ten seconds after Jake closes the door behind him.

It’s so hot it hurts, but the sting is exquisite. A long, sharp inhale hisses past my teeth as I lower my body into the water, and I can’t contain a moan when I sink fully under the surface. I swear I hear Jake blow out a harsh breath somewhere beyond the door.

The tub is big enough for me to stretch my legs fully straight. I float there for a few minutes, pondering the mundane circumstances that brought me to this truly wild moment. Then I realize—Jake is out there in the dark, just as soaked and chilled as I was. I didn’t see him take a towel with him, either.

“Jake?”

He doesn’t answer. Just as I open my mouth to call again, he says through the frosted glass door, “I’m here.” His voice is low. Strained.

“Are you OK?”

“Capital.” His flat, clipped delivery suggests otherwise.

Tentatively, I say, “Come get warm.”

Again, silence. For a full minute.

“Probably not a good idea,” he finally says.

“I’m getting out, then. Do you have a robe, or—”

The door clicks open. “Stay,” he says softly. He’s mostly in shadow, but the candlelight bouncing from the mirrors reflects in his eyes. He makes a very deliberate point of not looking in my direction.