Page 7 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Cherry nods. “Right, then,” she says to Quinn.

Quinn turns their attention back to me and echoes, “Right.”

“His name is Jake Frost,” Cherry whispers, leaning towards me. The hesitation of moments ago is replaced by a conspiratorial glimmer in her bright eyes.

Fascinating. That is his real name.

Quinn leans in too, pink-cheeked and quiet. “He’s here almost every day, so he must live or work nearby.”

“Sometimes he brings a laptop and works for a bit.”

“He always pays cash and tips a lot, like you Yanks do.”

The rest comes at me in a rapid back-and-forth exchange. I’m a professional information-gatherer, but it’s difficult to keep up, even for me. I learn that Jake Frost never leaves a single crumb on his table, he picks up after others who leave rubbish on theirs, and he always pushes his chair in before he leaves. Sometimes he wears a business suit, sometimes he’s casual, and it was a near-religious experience for Cherry the first time she saw his ass in a pair of grey joggers. Once, when he took out his earbud to speak to Quinn, they could hear that he was listening to an audiobook narrated by Jane Goodall.

In short? If someone asked me to list the fundamental qualities I’d find appealing in a man, everything Quinn and Cherry just mentioned would be near the top of that list. Jake Frost is a walking green flag.

“That’s it.” Cherry raises her hands. “That’s all we’ve got.”

Quietly, I say, “Thank you.”

“Do you want a coffee, then?” Quinn says. “Tea?”

I order an extra-hot cortado and ask for it to take away. Quinn obliges, but I get the stink-eye for not having a reusable cup. I’ll add that to my shopping list of necessities.

Jake doesn’t try to hide that he’s watching me as I walk to the door. As I reach for the handle, he says, “Did you get the information you were hoping for?”

Lightly, I say, “Listening in on my conversation again?”

“No. I just assumed I was the topic, since the three of you turned in unison to look at me. Twice.”

“Curious about you, that’s all.”

“Ah. I’m curious, too—how was your journey on the Tube?” He’s baiting me.

Nightmarish, thank you for asking.

“Sit. Please,” he says. “You look tired.”

“That’s exactly what women love to hear from strange men.” I’m aiming for sarcasm, but it slips out a touch flirtatious. Logically, I should walk out of here and go unpack my bags. But I can’t resist. I’ve been successfully baited and hooked. I sit in the chair across from him at the little table.

“Am I the strange one here?” His tone is annoyingly light, and his lip tugs sideways again.

“Not an improvement.”

He laughs, and the sound does more to warm my insides than the cortado. “A few minutes ago, you said yourself that you were tired.”

“It’s different when someone says it about themselves. And the Tube was perfect, actually. There was ample seating, nobody smelled of body odor or bad breath, and everyone was kind and accommodating about my luggage. I experienced exactly zero elbows in my ribs, boobs, or face. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”

He makes a quiet little tsk noise with his teeth and his tongue. His brows pull together in an expression of faux-sincere concern. “That bad, hm?”

There’s something disarming about a person who immediately matches your humor. He’s playing along, riffing with me. I don’t have many people in my life who really get me when I’m completely unfiltered. I even rein in my snark with Maddie most of the time. She’s so wide-eyed and earnest about everything, whenever I let a deadpan comment or sarcastic observation slip, she thinks there’s something wrong and it’s entirely her responsibility to make it better. And most of the things that actually bother me are completely unsolvable. So why bother her with it?

“It was rush hour, wasn’t it?” he says.

It was, but I sidestep. “You could have insisted I consider the black cabs.”

A few curls of steam rise in slow motion from his mug. “You don’t strike me as the sort to respond well to insistence.”