Page 61 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

The Sphynx cats trot back into the kitchen. When Indi sees them, she twists around to stand behind me. “Away, beasts.”

Jake lifts the fawn cat into his arms. It headbutts his chin, purring in a low, loud rumble. “This is Enoki,” he says, then he nods to the piebald weaving between my ankles and cooing like a pigeon. I’m reluctantly charmed. “Indi’s nemesis there is Chanterelle, but everyone calls her Elle for short.” He glances at his sister and says, “Some people say cats can sense evil, you know.”

“She’s going to sense my boot in her arse if she puts her teeth on me again,” Indi says.

Miles grabs a chopped walnut from the worktop to toss in his mouth. “You know I can’t stand for violence against animals, sweetheart.”

Jake leans towards me again. “Miles is a vet.”

“Ah,” I say.

“I might have a muzzle out in the truck—” Miles says.

“Brilliant,” Indi says. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean for the cat,” he laughs.

Indi lunges for him, giving chase as he feints out of the kitchen.

Helena claps her hands together, turning to Jake and me. “Well, then. Shall we move you two in?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Two days to Christmas

Now that we’ve said our hellos, Jake and I go back to his car to grab our bags. Helena comes with us.

“Evie, we’ve prepared the cottage for you. Plenty of firewood.”

Her phrasing is peculiar—she makes it sound like Jake won’t be staying with me. I instinctively glance at Jake for clarification. Right now, though, he’s looking at his mom.

His head is subtly tilted, curious. Her eyebrows lightly lift in response. Jake answers with a slight pinch-lipped smile and a mirrored raise of his own brows, then Helena breathes a silent laugh through her nose. Her expression softens.

They’ve just had an entire conversation with no spoken words, and it happened faster than I can blink twice.

What would it be like, to be that known by someone? That seen? What would it feel like, to understand and be understood simply through microexpressions and shared history?

Jake finally meets my eyes, and his expression stays neutral, but one of his brows bumps up in tandem with a faint slant of his lips. Shall I tell her …? the look says. I feel like I can actually hear his voice saying it in my head. The expression I send back hopefully says, Don’t you dare leave me alone. I think he gets it, because he answers with a smoldery warmth in his eyes before turning his attention back to his mom.

“I’ll be staying in the cottage too, Mum,” Jake says.

Oh. He got it. So that’s what it feels like.

“Marvelous.” Helena’s eyes sparkle, and she subtly bounces on her toes. “Extra pillows and blankets will be in the wardrobe.”

* * *

The cottage is down a fieldstone path behind the house. We round a tall hedge, and the late-afternoon sun catches on the glass panes of a tiny greenhouse. It looks like it started as an old shed, and gradually the walls and roof were replaced by a patchwork of antique windows secured together like puzzle pieces. The door at the gable end is stained-glass.

A dense cottage garden surrounds it, and even though everything is brown and brittle now, it’s still beautiful in its austerity. I can imagine how breathtaking it must be in the summer, with bees and butterflies coasting between foxglove and geranium, echinacea and sage.

It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. “Can I see inside? I beg, Jake.”

Jake moves in beside me. “You like it? Miles and I built it for Mum ages ago.”

The hinges on the door squeal in harmony. I leave my overnight bag on the stepping stone outside. Jake comes in after me, closing the door behind him to keep in the meager amount of warmth from the sun trapped under the glass.

After almost a decade of living in the city, the scent in this space is almost like therapy. That cool mineral quality of clean, living dirt, and the slight funk of fertilizer. I swear I can still smell the heat of summer sun baked into the wood and the soil.