CHAPTER TWO
Fourteen days until Christmas
When I wake up the next morning, it’s dark, and I’m disoriented.
I hear early-morning bustle outside a nearby window.
But the sounds are all wrong. Instead of the hiss of my local bus’s brakes or the hydraulic lift of the seafood truck at the Thai restaurant across my street, it’s clattering crates and the rhythmic beep of a reversing van.
There’s no gentle hum of my white noise machine, and it’s the first time in years that I’ve woken up on my own instead of to the screech of an alarm.
No homey scent of burnt dust from my old radiator, no trace of Maddie’s perfume drifting into my room from the hall.
Paperwhite Holiday Home is allegedly a five-minute walk from the Underground station, but when I stumbled off the Tube last night, it took me a half hour of wandering before I found it.
I barely noticed Covent Garden or the side street that’s to be my neighborhood for the rest of the month.
I didn’t even turn a light on inside the flat.
I locked the door behind me, stripped down to my bra and undies, and passed out on top of the duvet.
The one good thing about being here without Maddie is that I can sleep in as long as I want.
She’s a pathological morning person, and I am very much not.
It never matters how late we stay out, she always wakes up bright-eyed and offensively cheerful.
I, on the other hand, can’t remember a time I’ve woken feeling fully rested.
I would be one of the people who slept through an apocalyptic event and didn’t realize the world had ended until days later.
Just before ten o’clock in the morning, a caffeine withdrawal headache is what ultimately drags me out of bed.
Downstairs, a sliver of sunlight pierces through a gap in the curtains, and I hold up my forearm over my eyes, baring my teeth at it like a vampire.
This is the skin of an espresso addict, Bella.
There’s a Nespresso machine in the tiny kitchenette, but I have no actual coffee pods to put into it.
I don’t know where the closest convenience store is yet, but a quick glance at a map on my phone reveals coffee shops and cafés scattered around me like confetti.
The closest one is called Grey Earl’s. Cute.
After a much-needed shower, I pull on a pair of my coziest wide-legged jeans and a mint-green turtleneck sweater with balloon sleeves.
Fragrant sprays of rosemary, evergreen, and winter florals bound by ribbons of crimson and gold are everywhere on my short walk through Covent Garden.
Small Christmas trees in the piazza drip with metallic baubles that twinkle in the morning sun.
I’m at Grey Earl’s in a matter of minutes.
Under a white-and-grey striped awning, the glass storefront is foggy with condensation, and the windows are trimmed with spruce garlands and warm white fairy lights.
On the recessed wooden door hangs an enormous but simple wreath made from feathery sprays of cypress and pine.
A tiny bell sings as I go inside. Scuffed floorboards squeak beneath my feet, accompanied by the clink and tinkle of teacups and coffee mugs against their saucers.
To my right, tables nestle against an exposed brick wall.
The counter and a small bar take up most of the left.
It’s dim inside, and everything is dark wood and pewter finishes, but the effect is intimate and cozy instead of melancholy.
Mismatched Tiffany lamps cast muted colors over the bar, and strands of bistro bulbs crisscross the low ceiling.
There’s a single table in the nook in the bow window at the front of the space. Lush potted plants sit on the deep ledge and more hang from macramé slings. It would be the perfect place to sit if it wasn’t already occupied by a tall man with wavy hair the glossy gold-brown of teakwood.
The guy from the airport.
Here’s the thing about attractive men: there’s a distinct difference between handsome and hot.
I can’t explain it, but it’s true. This man, though?
He’s both. He’s gorgeous in that civilized British way, but with a rugged edge.
Like, by day, he’s a member of some aristocratic, rain-soaked riding club, and he drinks cognac by the fireside at night.
I’m convinced his family has an estate in the Cotswolds or Surrey, and he absolutely uses words like “marvelous” and “jolly” and “fetching” in everyday conversation.
“Oh my god.” It slips out louder than I meant it to. I stop just inside the doorway.
He looks up through his lashes and does a subtle double take when he sees me. Then he sits up straighter, glancing around like he’s unsure I’m talking to him. “Jake is fine, thank you.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
Today, he wears a navy-blue lobsterman’s sweater and dark jeans, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He’s lit up by a golden glow through the front window.
Like the sun itself thinks his face deserves a spotlight.
His hair is tucked behind his ears instead of the restrained style he wore on the plane. It looks soft.
“Why are you here?” I say.
“Ah … coffee?”
“Are you following me?”
“Pardon?” He lowers his mug to the table.
“Are you stalking me?”
“I was sitting here when you came in, love.” He leans back in his chair and threads his fingers together, low on his waist. “Are you following me?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“See? It’s an absurd accusation.”
Maybe it’s jet lag, maybe I’m petty. Maybe he’s an outlet for my frustration at Maddie for ditching me. I keep going instead of walking away. “You were on my flight, and I saw you when I left the terminal.”
“I remember.” He pauses. “Perhaps we saw each other in the terminal because we were on the same flight, and perhaps we were on the same flight because we were both leaving New York to come to London? And now, it’s just a coincidence that we’ve run into each other.”
“That’s a lot of coincidences.”
“Coincidences happen.”
I cross my arms. “That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
Briefly, his mouth twitches in an almost-smile, but he pins it down by tucking his lips between his teeth. “Wouldn’t I be a rather crap stalker if you’ve spotted me multiple times?”
“Maybe you’re a first-timer.”
He studies my face. There’s something vaguely familiar about him that’s unrelated to our previous run-in at the airport. But I can’t latch onto it. It’s like trying to catch a single grain of sand in the ocean at high tide.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his coffee mug and raises it to his lips. “Maybe we shouldn’t make light of stalking.”
“Fair.”
“Agree to stop, then?”
“Fine.”
“Marvelous.”
Ha. I knew it.
“When you walked away last night, you said ‘See you later,’” I say. “Like you knew you’d see me again.”
A single heavy brow quirks upwards, closely followed by the other.
They’re well-shaped, darker than his hair, and one arcs slightly higher than the other.
It gives him an air of playful approachability.
“Is that not what Americans say instead of goodbye? Even if there’s no chance of seeing the person again? ”
“Sometimes,” I say. “But you’re not American.”
He chuckles. As he does, his full top lip swerves sideways a bit. It’s really charming. “What gave it away?”
“It’s that contradictory blend of arrogance and performative nonchalance, I think.”
“Fair play,” he laughs. “Did you actually come here for coffee, or did you spot me through the window and decide to badger me for existing in my own neighborhood?”
There’s a tiny chance that I’m the asshole in this scenario. I rub my forehead. “Sorry. I’m tired.”
“You’re quite lovely when you frown.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Stop that.” He has a stern little furrow between his brows. “You’re ruining it, love.”
He has to be mocking me right now. My eyes are still puffy from sleep, I didn’t bother with makeup, and my hair hangs around my shoulders like an old fishing net. “Don’t call me love.”
“What shall I call you, then?” The sun through the window makes his hazel eyes seem like they’re lit from within. Desert eyes. Warm and mysterious. Easy to get lost there.
I laugh again. Loudly enough to catch a skeptical glance from the young couple sitting at the far end of the shop. “I’m not telling you my name.”
“I’m Jake.” He extends his hand towards me in greeting. “Jake Frost.”
“OK, sure.” I shake his hand. His wide palm is warm against mine. His grip is strong in a comforting way, not a power-move way. “I’m Lois. Lois Lane.”
He nods slowly. “You think I’m pulling your leg.”
“Oh, of course not. Is your brother Jack busy this time of year?”
“Ah. That’s very clever. First time I’ve heard that one.”
“Really?”
Dryly, he says, “No.”
“I’m walking away now.” I can’t help smiling as I turn away. I feel his attention on my back as I walk to the barista to order a coffee.
The wall behind the counter is covered in a mosaic of Polaroid photos.
Hundreds of smiling faces. At the far end of the bar, a chessboard lies mid-game with pieces shaped like cats, but nobody’s there.
Beside the cash register, there’s an old photo of a grey cat with a dangly collar tag that reads “EARL.” It sits next to a ceramic cat figurine that dispenses tiny round mints from its open mouth, like hairballs. Maddie would love it.
A tall barista with a sleeve tattoo of fern fronds and fiddleheads on fair, freckled skin approaches me. She looks like she’s about my age. Her red hair is in a tidy pixie cut, and her name tag says “QUINN.”
“You all right?” she says.
“Do you know that man over there?” I quietly ask.
She looks at me like I’ve just asked her to serve me a cup of steaming window cleaner instead of a coffee.