Page 77 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Jake’s smile is soft. “Me too.”

I have an absurd image of us slipping off our shoes, tossing quilts and cushions into this little space, and enjoying our meal in an Evie-Jake nest with our beloved city glittering below us like the world’s grandest festive light display. The other diners would stare and whisper behind their hands—half because they can’t possibly understand, the other half because they do, and they wish they were us.

Our conversation flows like the Thames—god, I’m really becoming insufferable about London—but one thing notably absent is talk of convincing me to love Christmas, or debating realness, or any of my other hang-ups that threaded through so many of our previous dates.

“I have things I want to tell you tonight,” he says. “They, ah, have to be in a certain order.”

Tell me you love me, Jake.

For the first time all evening, I’m genuinely nervous, and it has nothing to do with the dizzying altitude. It’s because Jake suddenly looks more on-edge than I’ve ever seen him.

“When we were at Marleigh yesterday, and you asked me about why I lived so differently from the rest of my family—I promised you more about that. But before I say anything else, I want you to know that I’ve spent a very long time feeling stuck.” He takes my hand, cradling it in both of his in the center of the table. “I’m finally starting to see a way forward, now.”

From the corner of my eye, a dark reflection in the polished floor stretches towards us, but it doesn’t move with the same controlled bustle as the servers.

The next few moments are something out of a movie. A ruthlessly handsome man approaches. He’s got gunmetal-gray hair and the same lithe, long lines as Jake. I don’t need Jake to tell me this man is his father. There’s a woman with him, but she stays back a bit, her expression impossible to read. She’s stunning in a black velvet dress. Nearly as tall as Jake’s father, her dark brown eyes make a striking contrast to her alabaster skin and silvery blonde hair.

With a placid, barely there smile, Jake’s father says, “Happy Christmas. Son.”

Jake seems to have been replaced by a flat, faded newsprint version of himself. And he’s never held my hand this tightly before. “Lovely to see you. Dad.” His voice is calm, but the way he says “Dad” is a weapon.

There’s no reaction from his father at first. Then he smiles and chuckles softly, as though he suddenly remembered his programming to pantomime humanity. “I wasn’t sure if you were still in London. How long has it been—twelve months? Fifteen? Imagine my surprise, seeing you here at the same place and same time as my informal little summit with Ms. Wilding-Wood. She’s been managing a great deal of the mess you left.”

The blonde woman finally approaches. She sighs. “Jameson, you’re being theatrical.” She is absolutely not intimidated by Jake’s father. I’m reluctantly impressed, but I’m not sure if this means she’s an ally, or an enemy even more ruthless than the elder Frost.

“Go on, Jake,” his father says. “Would you like to introduce your dinner companion to your fiancée?”

Fiancée.

The word is a domino with a bomb attached. Jameson watches it collide with Jake before it tips to me. I’ve been relatively impressed with my ability to keep my composure so far this evening, but this cuts me off at the knees.

“Enough,” Jake growls.

The woman extends a hand to me and says, “Juno Wilding-Wood.” She shifts her eyes to Jake’s father, then back to me. “I’m a friend of Jake’s.”

Jake’s grip tightens for a beat as I slide my hand from his to shake Juno’s. God, I hope she can’t feel how I’m sweating.

Before I can speak, Jameson Frost does. “Evangeline McClane, from Queens,” he says. “Formerly of The Juniper. Fascinating conflict of interest for you, Miss McClane, I’m sure.”

Questions swarm at me like a kicked beehive, but I dig deep for serenity. I’m literally shaking in my champagne sequins, but I’ve still got a power move of my own in my arsenal. I don’t look away from Juno as I shake her hand. “I’m Evie,” I say, simply. Then I turn my attention to Jake’s father. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure we’ve met?”

Jameson Frost sniffs. “So my son hasn’t told you about me, then.” He talks with his teeth showing, like he’s utterly incapable of hiding his contempt. “I suppose that also means he hasn’t told you what sort of people we are.”

“Don’t,” Jake warns. He’s wound so tight, I haven’t seen him blink since his father approached. He might as well be a Renaissance sculpture.

Maintaining the elder Frost’s gaze, I raise my chin and slowly blink at him. Then I smile without letting it reach my eyes. “He has not.”

Internally, I’m clinging to serenity by my metaphorical fingernails, but I manage to keep a stony exterior. Despite this man’s obvious cruelty, he’s beautiful, and his resemblance to Jake is so uncanny it makes my insides ache. This is a glimpse of how Jake might look in thirty years. A Jake I’ll never get to know.

Juno clears her throat and steps subtly between Jameson Frost and me. “How do you find London, Miss McClane?”

“Ah—” I quietly clear my throat. “Unexpected.”

“Where are you staying?” she asks, like we’ve just met at a fun, frivolous cocktail party and we’re on the way to becoming fast friends.

I play along, because it’s the only thing I’ve got. I’m not sure if it was her intention, but this tiny moment of bland social nicety is a lifeline. “Covent Garden, a little flat called Paperwhite Holiday Home.” I try to smile, but I can barely move my mouth. “It’s neither flat, nor a home.”

Juno laughs, softly. “It’s taken me years to remember to say jumper instead of sweater, and biscuit instead of cookie.”