Page 56 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Tell me more.” He puts a few lemons in the trolley.

“Well, at the very least, she says a new couple should build IKEA furniture together at least once. If they really want to test compatibility, maybe they do without the instructions.”

“Diabolical.”

“Also—a cross-country road trip with no GPS, so they have to use paper maps.”

“Sounds dystopian,” he says.

“Camping trip, but it’s raining, and they arrive late. So they have to set up their tent in the dark.”

“Nightmarish.”

“And for me personally—I’d need to spend at least an hour or two in a bookstore with a prospective partner. If they rush me, I’m out.”

“I’d spend all day there with you just to be able to watch you do that little lip-nibble thing you do when you’re concentrating.”

“What lip-nibble thing?” I laugh.

“The one where you pull your top lip in, and I can see your bottom teeth. It’s adorable.”

“I didn’t even realize I did that.”

“Well,” Jake drops a kiss on the top of my head, “I reckon I spend a lot more time looking at you than you do.”

At the edge of the produce section, a few poinsettias and sad-looking potted fir trees in festive wicker baskets sit lined up on the floor. Impulsively, I bend to lift one of the firs into the cart while Jake has his back turned to peruse the tomatoes. It bangs against the bottom of the metal basket when I set down the heavy pot, and a few dry needles drop to the floor.

Jake glances over his shoulder—first at me, then at the conifer in our trolley. He turns in slow motion, his brow creased, eyes narrowed. Then he comes close and says in a hushed tone, “Who are you, and what have you done with my Evie?”

I pop up on my toes to drop a kiss on his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Jake.”

* * *

That evening, Jake and I make dinner together. We’re both admittedly terrible in the kitchen, but we’ve each got a single dish we’re able to prepare from memory with moderate success. I make meatloaf with a side of lemon-garlic broccoli, and when it comes out of the oven I’m a bit embarrassed at how unappetizing it looks compared to Jake’s dish. He calls his “Marry Me” Chicken. It has a sundried tomato cream sauce, allegedly so delicious it inspires marriage proposals. He got the recipe from his sister Cait, whose wife actually did propose to her when she tasted it. They’d apparently been heading down the road to matrimony already, and that meal accelerated the process.

Jake carries both our plates to the bed. We’ve covered it with an old duvet and laid a few hefty law school textbooks around to set our food and drinks on. “Shall we watch a Christmas film with our picnic?”

“But you don’t have a television.”

“I didn’t say television. I said ‘film.’” Jake settles in beside me with his own plate, then he aims a remote at the wall opposite the bed. There’s a faint mechanical whirring noise, and a white screen begins to descend from a slot near the crown molding. At the same time, a projector emerges from the ceiling at the center of the room.

“Of course you have a theatre setup in your ceiling,” I laugh.

We watch While You Were Sleeping and Die Hard after a long conversation about why each counts as a classic Christmas film. At first, Jake isn’t sold on Die Hard, and he accuses me of bias because I share a last name with the fictional protagonist. Eventually, he comes around, and we even decide that Die Hard qualifies as a romance movie too, since the entire reason John McClane does what he does is to save his wife. And it ends in a happily ever after.

It’s well past dark by the time we finish the movies. Lounging back on the bed while Jake washes up in the kitchen, I say, “I never want to live anywhere again where my bed isn’t five steps away from my kitchen. Or a film projector.”

“I don’t think this is a very conventional design choice, love.” He turns from the sink, watching me with intense eyes and a gentle smile.

“What?” I say.

Turning back to the dishes, he says, “Just noticed how it doesn’t echo as much in this place when you’re here.”

Warmth floods through me, but I play it casual. “You should invest in a few rugs.”

When he finishes drying the last dish, he comes back to bed. “Has today been real enough for you?”

I trace a finger along the map of veins on his hand. “Jake, you live in a several-million-pound penthouse with a film projector in the ceiling and a bed in the living room.”