Page 58 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

We get on the road an hour later than we’d originally planned.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Two days to Christmas

We’re calling today our road-trip date.

I do a double take when I get to the car. “We’re taking a passenger with us, hm?”

The little potted fir tree we bought at the supermarket sits on the back seat of Jake’s very expensive vehicle. He didn’t bother to put a blanket or a towel under it, and there’s already a faint dusting of soil and dried needles on the leather.

It’s strapped in with a seatbelt.

Jake loads my bag into the trunk and opens my door to tuck me in. “Such remarkable journalistic observation skills,” he teases, popping a kiss on my forehead. “We won’t be coming back to London until after Christmas. I was thinking Mum could plant it in the garden, come spring.”

This man. The greenest of green flags.

“That sounds perfect.” I have to swallow hard past the lump in my throat. I love the idea of the tree I found, virtually abandoned in a pot in the supermarket, getting to live out its days in the Cotswolds. It’s like I’ll be leaving a living piece of myself behind. Maybe Jake will think of me every time he sees it.

We buckle in. Jake switches on a jazzy Christmas playlist, and he puts a warm, reassuring hand over mine. And then, we’re off.

Once we’re out of the city, there’s beauty in the bareness. A sepia-toned winter world rolls by my window like an old movie reel. Frost gathers in foothills and in the furrows of stubbled fields. Bare beech trees seem inked by a fine brush and an unsteady hand. We pass small streams and tiny bridges, quaint stone churches, and sheep grazing gently sloped fields.

“I feel sad for them,” I say.

“The sheep? Why? They’ve got their own wool coats.”

My laugh is half-groan. “All right, Dad.”

“I’ll have you know, that was an uncle joke, not a dad joke. Far superior comedy.”

Jake grins out the front window without looking over at me, so I get to indulge in some lovely prolonged staring at his profile. I love the way his cheek creases around his lips when he smiles—it’s bigger than a dimple, more of a frame for his gorgeous mouth. I love the sharp angle of his jaw, and how it contrasts with the velvety softness of his earlobe, and I love his nose, proud and shaped like it was etched from marble with a precise, loving hand.

“You love being an uncle, hm?”

“God, yeah. Nothing like it.” He glances away from the road for a beat, smiling again. “Enzo—my sister Genny’s middle son—he thinks I’m the funniest bloke on the planet. Exceptionally good taste.

“Remind me, how old is Enzo?” I tease.

“Ah … four.” Jake drops his tone, serious. “He’s a very discerning four, mind you.”

I laugh.

“She’s got two other boys. The oldest is Felix, he’s a serious little lad, doesn’t find me nearly as funny as Enzo. Alfie doesn’t either. Yet.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s an infant. Tough crowd, you know.”

Laughing, I say, “You want kids of your own someday?” There’s no subtext in the question—I’m simply, genuinely wondering. But when the words hang in the air between us, I worry what it sounds like to Jake. Does it actually seem like idle curiosity, or an invitation?

Again, he flicks his eyes away from the road to glance over at me. “Well, dad-ing and uncle-ing are different, aren’t they? But yes. I think I do. Someday.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead. After a beat, he says, “You?” in a tone I’m certain he thinks is casual, but it’s not. Not at all. Maybe he’s wondering the same thing I just did.

“I do. Maybe?” I tuck my feet under me in the seat. “Yeah. I do. It’s hard to imagine when, though. I can’t picture the space and time for kiddos in my life right now. And I’d have no idea how to be a mom.”

Jake chuckles. “Nobody becomes a first-time parent knowing how to be a parent. It’s an on-the-job-training sort of deal.”

“Speaking of kids,” I say, “maybe you should give me the Frost family tree prep course.”