Page 47 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

I’m not naïve. I know where this thing between us is heading. The only surprise is how fast I’m letting myself fall. It’s like gravity, and now that I’ve started spiraling, I can’t stop.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Five days until Christmas

The next morning, I wake up to a text from Jake. This one has more specific instructions than any of our dates so far, but they’re so contradictory, I have no idea what to make of them.

Be ready at four. Wear a long coat. No jeans. Expect to get wet.

Expect to get wet?

I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. We’ve already had a date on the Thames, so that can’t be it. Obviously, we’re not swimming anywhere in December. Unless there’s an indoor pool he’s planning to take me to? But then, why would it matter whether I wore jeans?

The only thing I packed for this trip that isn’t jeans and would also be suitable for an evening out is a burgundy maxi dress with a scoop neck and long fitted sleeves. It’s not fancy by chic London standards, but my only other options are joggers that were meant for Maddie’s eyes only. I guess I’m wearing a dress tonight.

When the text notification pinged, I’d been in the middle of a dream that Jake gave me a gorgeous traditional advent calendar, only instead of gifts behind the doors, each one was full of condoms. They came shooting out at me like those prank cans full of spring-loaded snakes.

And I’m definitely not seeing Jake again without them.

* * *

The crackling cold air in Covent Garden smells of hot cinnamon and espresso. When I pop in to Grey Earl’s for a coffee and chocolate croissant, Jake is there. He’s in black thermal leggings under a pair of loose olive-green shorts, and a lightweight hooded fleece in the same color. Obviously, he’s been for a morning run. We’re not supposed to see each other until this evening, and even though I’m not surprised to see him, my blood pressure climbs and I get a tingle along the back of my neck. It’s a delicious little thrill to run into him here in public. Like this is my real neighborhood, and I’m a real local, and he’s the guy I’m dating.

He raises his mug and nods, and I smile back. As I head to the bar, he watches me with smoldery warmth in his eyes.

“Morning, love,” Cherry says.

Quinn has already begun my pour-over. They look up, wink, and murmur “Ev,” by way of greeting.

“Croissant or banana bread this morning?” says Cherry.

“Chocolate croissant, please. To take away. I’m going shopping.”

“Ooh. Where you going?”

I clasp my hands behind my back and rock on my heels. Playfully, I say, “That’s for me to know.”

“Ooooh,” Cherry says again, this time drawn out a bit longer. “Right then, keep your secrets.” She passes me a paper bag with my pastry inside.

Cutting their eyes to where Jake sits at the window, Quinn hands over my coffee and says in a low, conspiratorial tone, “I don’t know if you realize this, but that man by the window hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in.”

“Mm. Interesting. Should I say hello?” I whisper.

“To your future husband? Of course,” Quinn whispers back. “And when you marry this man, we’ll be at the top of the guest list, right?”

I laugh and say, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” but it sets off a wistful little ache behind my breastbone.

I stop at Jake’s table on my way out. A knitted cap and a pair of gloves sit folded neatly on the table next to a near-empty coffee cup and the leftovers of a two-inch-high slice of chocolate cake layered with pistachio cream. This contradiction delights me—he cares for his body, and he indulges it at the same time.

“Chocolate cake for breakfast? Are you a hedonist, Mr. Frost?”

A single eyebrow bumps upwards as he glances lazily at his wristwatch. “It’s past noon, Miss McClane. It’s not breakfast for those of us who don’t have the body clock of a koala.” Then he picks up his fork to take a bite of the cake. He licks a bit of chocolate from the edge of his upper lip. It’s just cake, for goodness’ sake, but I know too much about what that tongue is capable of. “To answer your question, though—” He meets my eyes. “I suppose I am.”

“Flirt.” I roll my eyes and laugh, but the smolder low in my belly flares to life. I shake my head and walk to the door, and I’ve got my hand on the knob when Jake says, “Hey.” I stop and turn to face him, and he says with one of his quiet smiles, “See you later.”

* * *

The London Eye is the third-highest structure in London. I’ve seen it in the distance a lot over the last few days, and it was easy to think of it as a glorified Ferris wheel. But now that we’re directly below it, its scale is staggering. Lights surge and shift, racing along all its structural surfaces. Blue and white, green and red. The pods are enormous, at least twenty feet long. I still have no idea how “prepare to get wet” fits into this date, but I trust Jake implicitly.