Page 8 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“You finally got something right,’ I tease. “I’m from New York City. Usually, we leave the taxis for the tourists.”

“You are a tourist, lo—” He catches himself before he can call me “love” again.

I’ve got to give him credit for trying. I sigh. “My name is Evie.”

He hesitates, then he smiles. It’s almost … apologetic? “I know. I saw it on your luggage tag yesterday.”

For a moment, I’m actually speechless. He makes me feel like I brought checkers to a chess match. I should want to walk away, but the only thing I find hotter than a set of wide shoulders and good hair is kind eyes and a quick wit. Jake Frost has all four.

“I live here, by the way,” he says.

“Here here?”

“Indeed. I have a cot in the back. I work for free coffee, and they let me have the leftover pastries at the end of the night.”

“I meant here in Covent Garden.”

“I know what you meant,” he says. “I chose to respond with a joke, you see. To lighten the mood.”

I respond with a soft grumble in the back of my throat.

“We’re practically neighbors,” he says. “Where do you think we’ll run into each other next?”

My insides feel wobbly and hot. I am wildly attracted to this man, but what I really want—what I need—out of life right now is to forget men exist at all. I didn’t come here to make a new long-distance friend, and I didn’t come here to have a fling. I especially didn’t come here to fall in love. I came here to make damned sure I’ve fallen entirely out of it.

I stand and push my chair in. “I didn’t come here to date anyone.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “I wasn’t asking.”

Ouch. His tone is pleasantly neutral, but the words themselves land on my tender ego with the impact of an uppercut. I’m yanked back to reality like one of those fuzzy cat toys on the end of a string.

“Ah, that fabled British charm.” I head to the door. The tiny bell overhead chimes when I swing it open, letting in a gust of crisp winter air that smells like wet cobblestones, buttery popcorn, and fried cinnamon churros.

As it closes behind me, I hear him say, “See you later, Evie,” and something tells me he’s right. Considering how attracted to him I am, it could prove to be a problem.

CHAPTER THREE

Fourteen days until Christmas

Covent Garden’s open central piazza feels Italian-inspired, with shops of brick and stone, and colonnaded porticos around the perimeter. The market itself is a semi-open space covered with a soaring glass and iron roof that reminds me of a greenhouse. At the western end of the square, a fifty-foot spruce sparkles like thousands of tiny fireworks frozen mid-pop.

I spend a few hours wandering the piazza, browsing shops and kiosks and little pop-up chalets serving a range of snacks from roasted chestnuts to deep-fried Brie. A woman in a long burgundy gown sings an upbeat solo rendition of “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and snow begins to fall. The flurry doesn’t last long, but children run around catching the flakes in their gloved hands. I miss that kind of simple, uncomplicated joy. Their laughter makes me feel it second-hand, and it makes me smile.

I’d hoped to grab a few grocery items for the little kitchenette at the flat, but it’s soon very clear to me that the Covent Garden market isn’t the sort of market that sells the basics. I find a small supermarket nearby and buy a carton of milk, yogurt, butter, and a weighty block of aged Gouda that would probably last someone else several weeks. If I’m honest with myself, it will probably be gone within a few days. I also pick up a few apples, bananas, and a box of Nespresso pods. At a bakery, I grab a loaf of hearty bread and a pack of pastries called Chelsea buns that look a lot like cinnamon rolls. With a canvas bag over each shoulder as I walk back to Paperwhite, I feel an unexpected sense of contentment. It’s tiny and fragile, but it’s something.

Paperwhite is down a side street lined by eclectic boutiques and art galleries, with zigzags of string lights dangling between the buildings above. It’s tiny inside, with watercolor paintings of paperwhites and other daffodils on the walls, and a jewel-green loveseat that evokes springtime. On the side table, there’s a rectangular vase with plant bulbs nestled in pebbles. They’re just beginning to push out new shoots. Paperwhites, I assume. I wonder if they’ll bloom before I leave.

Beside the paperwhites, there’s a small chalkboard propped on an easel with a note from the host that reads “Welcome Madison & Evangeline!” with a bowl of chalk beside it. I erase the welcome and write a number in its place. A countdown of how many days before I go home.

The kitchenette has a leaky sink and the tiniest washing machine I’ve ever seen. As I put away my grocery haul, I prop my phone against a sleek electric kettle on the countertop and call Maddie. When she answers, she’s in the exact spot I saw her in when we spoke yesterday. Her sweater of choice today is a mewing Santa and the words “BIG NICK ENERGY.”

By way of greeting, I say, “I’m starting to feel like you’re objectifying Santa Claus.”

Maddie dips her chin to glance down at her chest. “He’s the ideal man, Evie. Generous. Loves animals. And the stamina he must have? Faithful to the same woman for centuries? Come on.” She looks back up. “How’s the flat?”

“I don’t know why they call them flats. The bedroom is up a flight of stairs that’s so narrow and steep I felt like I needed a nap after bringing up my luggage. And remember how the listing said there was a second sleeping space? It’s actually more of a, like … crevice? With a pull out loveseat.”

“Ew. Don’t say that.” She shudders theatrically.