CHAPTER FIVE
Twelve days until Christmas
“Evie, it’s Cherry.”
I mean to mutter “Hi,” but it comes out as “Hnnngh.”
“From the coffee shop,” she adds.
It’s very sweet that she thinks there might be anyone else in London named Cherry who would be calling me right now. I roll over and crack my eyelids open, but it’s still dark outside. Then I drop my phone on my face. “Ow.”
“You all right? Been trying to reach you for hours. There’s a letter for you here at the café.”
A letter?
“Like, mail?” I sit up on my elbows and squint at the digital display of the alarm clock on the bedside table. It reads 4:32. “And why are you telling me this at four thirty in the morning?”
“Because it’s four thirty in the afternoon.”
Meet me at Grey Earl’s tomorrow round ten in the morning. If not, I’ll get the hint and make myself scarce.
Oh, no.
* * *
“Jake asked for your number,” Cherry says.
“He begged,” Quinn adds. “I couldn’t decide if it was sexy or pathetic.”
Cherry makes a thoughtful face. “I mean … pathetic can be hot.”
“Depends on the context,” Quinn says. “Pathetic because of insecurity? Pass. Pathetic because of yearning? Smash.”
“I didn’t give it to him, by the way,” Cherry says. “Your number.”
I run my fingers along the envelope. The paper is faintly textured, and it feels heavy. Expensive. “When was he here?”
“Arrived around half nine,” Quinn says.
“Stayed till half twelve,” says Cherry.
“Came back just after two o’clock with that letter.”
Groaning, I lean over to press my forehead against my stacked hands on the bar.
“What’s wrong?” they both say.
“I was supposed to meet him here at ten this morning.” My voice is muffled. “I overslept.”
“You slept past four o’clock in the afternoon?” Cherry says.
“I’m jet-lagged, OK?”
“Well, no undoing that now. Open the bloody letter, Evie,” Quinn says. “I’m invested.”
I open the envelope and carefully pull out the folded paper inside.
The writing is tidy, with letters of uniform size and shape.
Slanted slightly to the right, and every letter T has an asymmetrical tail that suggests forward momentum.
The words and sentences are near-perfectly parallel to the ones above and below them, even though there aren’t any lines on the paper itself.
God, even this man’s handwriting is attractive.
I suppose I stretched the truth a bit when I said I’d get the hint if you didn’t show at ten this morning.
I hope this letter isn’t an overstep. If you’d like to give me a chance to show you London at Christmas, I’ll be at Somerset House for ice skating at six o’clock tonight. I’ll be near the central arch, waiting.
J.
* * *
It takes me around ten minutes to walk to Somerset House, but navigating through pedestrians along the Strand makes progress feel agonizingly slow. Now that I’ve decided that I want to spend time with Jake and already missed one chance, I’m anxious I’ll miss my last.
I arrive at 5:58, and despite the crowd, I see Jake as soon as I approach the three grand arches that lead into the Somerset House courtyard. He stands at the middle, backlit by kaleidoscopic lights. My pulse picks up, my hands start to feel clammy inside my gloves.
He doesn’t notice me at first because he’s smiling down at his phone.
His cream cable-knit sweater looks heavy and expensive, and he’s wearing a knitted hat, making waves of his hair swoop out behind his ears and at his nape.
When I look at him, my entire nervous system feels like it lights up like a theater marquee.
God. This is going to ruin me.
My feet scuff the pavement as I approach, and he looks up from his phone. His face breaks into a relieved, almost boyish smile as I approach. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.” I hold out my hands, palms up.
His expression shifts, eyes widening, brows pulling together. His lips tighten in playful mock concern. “How was the walk along the Strand? Did you manage to evade the Christmas spirit? Dodge any stealth mistletoe?”
Matching his energy, I frown and nod. “It was dicey at first, but I managed to avoid decking any halls or jingling any bells. The dancin’ and prancin’ almost got me, though.”
“Whew.” He nods, exhaling like he’s relieved. The heat of his breath makes a little swirl in the air in front of him. “Thought I’d been ghosted, you know.”
“Be serious. You’ve never been ghosted in your life.”
“You ghosted me this morning.” His eyes glitter as he looks down at me. As merry and bright as any of the twinkling lights along the Strand.
“I wanted to come. I remember reading that if we don’t decide to rest when we need it, our bodies decide for us. I guess my body decided for me. I didn’t wake up until after four.”
“Always a good idea to listen to our bodies.” His tone makes my face and ears flare so hot I’m surprised a halo of steam doesn’t poof around me in the chilly air.
Jake’s phone is still face-up in his hand. A flash of long, curly red hair moves past the screen, but I can’t make out any more details. Then I hear a child blow a long, wet raspberry.
My insides clench. Does Jake have kids?
He blinks a few times, then he squeezes his eyes shut. “Ah, shit, sorry. I was just having a chat about Christmas plans—”
“Of course. Please.” I wave my hand and turn sideways. The very picture of nonchalance.
A second later, a tiny voice comes through the phone’s speaker. “Uncle Jake!”
Uncle. What a gorgeous word.
“Enzo, my best friendzo.” Jake’s voice lifts a little higher. Softer, too.
“She’s there,” another child says. “I heard her voice. You don’t have to be sad anymore.”
“Ah—” Jake says on a laugh.
I pin my smile between my teeth. Jake watches me with hooded eyes. His cheeks are flushed in the glow of the phone screen. From the cold, surely.
“Let us see her, then,” comes a woman’s voice.
Jake raises a brow at me in question, lifting the phone a smidge. He looks uncertain.
I peek over the screen and say, “Hello.”
The woman on the screen looks to be about my age, with coppery-red hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Two young boys peer over her shoulder. “Oh, you are lovely,” she says.
Jake sighs. “This is my sister Imogen and my nephews Felix and Enzo. Genny, this is Evie.”
I wave, leaning closer to Jake to whisper, “Shame on you for involving children in your charm campaign.”
“Ah, so you do think I’m charming,” he whispers back.
“Are you enjoying London?” Genny says.
“So far.” I glance up at Jake. “There’s a strange man who seems to turn up everywhere I go, though.”
The boys giggle. Genny plays along. “Tall? Bit posh, but still sweet?”
“Mm-hmm. Sounds like the one.”
“Very nice hair? Gets weepy about Christmas?”
“Definitely the nice hair.” Playfully, I tap my finger on my chin. “Haven’t seen any tears yet, but I’m optimistic.”
We share a laugh.
“Jake?” Genny says. As Jake peers at the screen over my shoulder, she says, “Well done.” He laughs, and some of the tension eases out of him.
“And Evie?” Genny’s smile is gentle and warm now. “Do enjoy London. You couldn’t ask for a better guide.”
* * *
Walking through the archway into Somerset House’s courtyard feels like stepping onto the set of a big-budget Christmas movie.
Pale stone architecture is washed in pastel floodlights.
Laughter and the sound of skates scraping ice accompany a classic version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” There’s a refreshments lounge along the far side of the rink where people sit at tables overlooking the ice.
They’ve got a front-row seat for when I inevitably bust my ass.
Once we’ve put our skates on and stepped onto the ice, it’s clear Jake is a natural. Hands in his pockets, shoulders level, back straight, it’s like he’s on a casual stroll instead of balancing his tall frame over narrow metal blades on a surface as slick as greased glass.
Me? This is, apparently, my first day with legs. I’m going to be that person in the background of photos and videos. They’ll zoom in on my horrified “oopsie” face and get a good chuckle at it. Maybe I’ll even become a meme in their group chats.
Jake pulls ahead as soon as we hit the ice, but he notices right away that I’m not with him. He glides back to me and stops by snapping his feet sideways to scrape a fine puff of powder from the ice. He makes it look effortless.
I glance from his feet to his face. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
He grins. “Haven’t found anything yet. But there’s plenty I haven’t tried.”
With a death grip on the wall, I tip my head back and laugh. “Wow.”
“Is that wow, what an exceptional human specimen, or wow, he’s all the way up his own arse?”
“Neither,” I laugh. “I was impressed at how you managed to be confident and modest about it at the same time.”
Other people zip around us with varying degrees of finesse.
Some couples glide by in gentle conversation, like they’re on a walk in the park.
One man thunders past like he’s running, ramming the blades of his skates down like ice picks.
An elementary-aged girl whips by with the balletic grace and speed of a figure skater.
Jake hovers nearby. He’s got his arms poised like he’s ready to reach out and grab me.
“We can go slow.” His gaze latches onto mine and holds. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t have to stay here in the baby lane with me. It’s fine.”
He tips his head to the side, curious. “I’m here to skate with you. Why would I skate off by myself?”
Goosebumps stitch up my spine and down my arms, and it has nothing to do with the cold air.
I’ve only ever been ice skating one other time—at the Rockefeller Center with Calvin.
He’d played hockey in high school, so he was great on the ice.
At first, he held my hand and helped. Eventually he said he wasn’t having fun, and that I’d need to figure it out on my own.
Then he spent the rest of the evening lapping most of the people in the rink.
A few times, he flipped around to skate backwards in front of me, but whenever I reached out for him, he’d grin like we were playing a game, and skate away.