Page 55 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Sun streams in through the big windows and skylights, flooding the place with sweet light the color of lemonade. I’ve got a leg thrown over Jake’s belly, and he’s got a loose grip on my naked hip. With my fingertips, I make tiny little swirls in the feather-soft hair across his chest. “Are we calling today a date? You promised me twelve dates to fall in love.”

“With Christmas.” Jake raises a finger. “And London.”

“Of course. We need to keep the scope realistic.”

“What number would today be, then? Nine?”

“Hmm, by my calculations, it’s ten, if we count the ghost tour.”

“I thought you were skeptical about whether that counted as a date?” Jake teases. “There was nary a single fond glance that night. No handholding. Certainly no kiss.”

“Good point.” I make a theatrically thoughtful face, scrunching my brow, pinching my lips tight. “But, in retrospect, I wanted to do all those things. Surely that counts for something?”

“Right. Date number ten, then. Let’s consult the advent calendar to see what’s on for today.” He grabs his phone from the bedside table and taps around on the screen. “Huh.”

I sit up straighter. “What is it?”

His hair falls into his eyes when he looks up. He swings it off his forehead with a quick jerk of his chin. “It says: ‘mutual wank in the bath.’”

“It does not.” I snatch the phone out of his hand. The only thing on the screen is his wallpaper. I hand the phone back and shove him gently in the arm. “Menace.”

Laughing, he taps a finger to his temple. “My brain is our date advent calendar, love. Let’s call today’s date: ‘Evie’s choice.’”

“Oh my, I’m positively mad with power.” I rub my hands together. “How will I choose?”

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Let’s stay in,” I say. “We can call it ‘Evie and Jake’s Date of Domestic Bliss.’ Let’s pretend, just once, this is real life.”

The playfulness drains out of Jake as quick as if I’d pulled a plug. “This is real life, Evie.”

I lay my hand on his arm. “And you know what I mean.”

We’re quiet for a while. He covers my hand with his, then he flips it to thread his fingers between mine. Grazing his thumb across my knuckles, he says, “We can’t stay in all day. My fridge and pantry are empty. And we leave for the Cotswolds tomorrow, you know.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And if this were real life, you’d probably spend the night.” He meets my eyes. “For practical reasons. Early start, and all that.”

I blink up at him. “Oh, of course.”

“So I suppose the first order of business is to pop round to your flat to collect your things.”

* * *

When we finally get out of bed later that afternoon, Jake drives us to Paperwhite and I throw together an overnight bag to last through the end of the week. Afterwards, we head to a supermarket to stock up for our date of domestic bliss.

“Have you noticed yet how most of what we do together revolves around food?” I say to Jake as I push a trolley along the produce aisle.

Jake puts a head of broccoli in. “Foundational to any good relationship, really.”

He says it so casually. Relationship. He’s not even looking at me as he says it—he’s got his bottom lip thoughtfully pushed out as he peruses the selection of fresh garlic bulbs. Even more remarkable is that I don’t get that nagging sensation of static in my brain as he says it. This is a relationship now, regardless of what happens to it at the end of the month.

“This is one of Maddie’s relationship tests. Shopping for groceries without a list.”

Jake gives me one of his lopsided smiles. “Are we passing the test?”

“I’m not sure what the passing criteria are, actually. I suppose we’re winning if we’re not sniping at each other.”