CHAPTER SIX
Eleven days until Christmas
The next morning, I wake up to a text from a UK number.
Jake:Keen to fall in love today?
Evie:You’re lucky your arrogance is charming.
Jake:Is that a yes?
Evie:Absolutely.
Jake:Brilliant. Meet me at noon in the piazza. Bring an empty tote and an appetite. I’ll handle the rest.
* * *
Jake waits for me in front of the piazza Christmas tree. In a pair of faded jeans, pebbled leather boots, and an oatmeal cardigan over a hunter-green henley, he looks like a brand ambassador for the festive season. His entire look says: countryside, but make it London luxury.
A black cab gets us to Borough Market in a little under fifteen minutes.
The London sky gleams a silvery grey, casting everything in dreamy, muted softness. There’s no rain, but when I breathe in, I can taste the damp on my tongue. Our first stop is a kiosk for mulled wine. Plumes of spiced steam hang heavy over cauldrons that burble like they’re having a chat.
“I think I’ve had my fill of mulled wine, Jake. Not sure it’s for me.”
He pauses with his wallet in his hand. “That stuff we had on the ghost tour put you off? That was a Tesco bottom-shelf red with a dash of dried cinnamon in it.” Jake breathes a little laugh through his nose. “Calling that slop mulled wine is like calling a bloody Oreo a Parisian macaron.”
I reluctantly agree to try again, and he orders two for us to sip as we walk around.
I’m glad I listened to him. This mulled wine tastes like someone distilled the festive season into drinkable form.
It’s plummy and luxurious, with a twist of sweet citrus.
The paper cup is warm between my hands. I want to drink this every day I’m here.
We join the steady stream of people entering the market and head for the cluster of food stalls.
The scents coming out of this place are unreal.
The fatty richness of roasted and fried meats adds an almost tangible weight to the air.
Aromatic herbs and spices marry with the fragrance of woodsmoke and charcoal.
There’s laughter and conversation mixed with the sound of traffic, and the percussive clang of pots and pans from the vendors.
It’s mid-afternoon, so we’ve arrived after the lunch rush, but it’s still busy enough that Jake’s hand finds the small of my back when he needs to guide me through the crowd, and every time it does, my heart races.
We stroll through the central Market Hall, browsing all the stalls.
The glass ceiling here is high, supported by a web of iron beams and arches.
Greenery twists around columns, and pom-pom light fixtures twinkle along the exposed scaffolding overhead.
A few Christmas trees are decorated with real fruits and strands of variegated ivy.
Iron and glass rumble as a train passes overhead.
I’m not going to be able to spend an entire day with Jake without indulging my curiosity.
I have dozens of things I’m aching to learn about him, but every question will come with an answer, and every answer will bring me a tiny bit closer to knowing him.
This undefined, unfamiliar space we’re in now is safe, if not a little unsatisfying.
Questions about work are adjacent to surface-level, right? “So, what do you do for a living that lets you take an entire day off midweek on such short notice?”
He hesitates so briefly, I think I’d have missed it if I wasn’t looking right at his face. “I’m in nonprofit work. I deal with policy stuff.”
Was it too much to hope for a boring, straightforward reply?
If he’d told me he was a self-employed accountant or a remote software engineer, I could have simply moved on with casual small talk.
Instead, his answer is just vague enough that more questions crowd into my mind, jockeying for position.
Which nonprofits? How’d you get into this work? Is it a side hustle?
We get stuck behind a group who’s stopped in the middle of the walking path to take a selfie.
As if he can tell I’m dying to ask more questions, Jake adds, “I get to work by my own schedule.” With a woeful lift of his brows, he says, “I’ll be working well past midnight tonight because of this afternoon with you. ”
“Oh, no. Really?” I step sideways to get around the group.
Suddenly, Jake reaches for me, clamping his hands around my waist to pull me against him.
I stumble and reach out to brace myself.
My open palms land against the center of his chest. I can feel the solid planes of his pectorals arcing away from the flat of his sternum, and the thrum of his heartbeat beneath.
The noise of the market fades to a dull hum in my ears.
A beat later, a man pushing an overloaded produce cart rattles past, nodding to Jake with a muttered “Cheers.”
Jake doesn’t let go of my waist. The way he’s watching my mouth right now is downright indecent.
His thumb slipped under the hem of my sweater as he tugged me against him, and now it’s pressed like a brand into the curve of soft skin above my jeans.
His pupils are blown wide open. A long, warm exhale through his nose stirs the wisps of hair around my face.
He’s got his bottom lip pinned between his teeth, and when he releases it, it’s shiny and damp. He probably tastes like mulled wine—
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Jake must feel it, because he lets his hands fall away.
It’s Maddie, and it’s a video call. I’m reluctant to answer for several reasons—the least of which is that we’re currently standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a mob of festive market-goers. But I didn’t check in with Maddie at all yesterday, and I don’t want her to be worried, so I answer.
“Sorry—I have to take this,” I say to Jake. I step away, close enough to keep him in sight, but far enough that he can’t overhear.
Maddie stands at our postage-stamp-sized countertop making a pour-over, and of course she’s wearing another punny Santa sweatshirt. He’s holding a riding crop, and this one reads, “FIFTY SHADES OF SLEIGH.”
“Hello again from the future,” I say.
“Ooh, where are you?” Maddie says.
“Borough Market. So much food, Mads. You’d eat until you barfed.”
“Ugh, I hate that I’m missing it.”
“Not too late to hop on a plane.” As soon as the words are out, a tiny bubble of anxiety rises inside me, and it has nothing to do with Maddie not being here. It’s anxiety that she might actually change her mind and come, putting an end to whatever is happening here between Jake and me.
Which, of course, is ridiculous.
She finishes the pour-over and cups her mug with both hands. “Exploring alone?”
My eyes involuntarily cut over to where Jake stands patiently waiting. “Not exactly.”
Maddie’s eyes get big. She leans towards the phone, filling the entire screen with a close-up of her mouth. She whispers, “Oh my god. Is it the guy?”
“Whispering over the phone doesn’t work like you think it does.”
Again, I glance over at Jake. This time he notices, and he must think I want him to come over because he starts walking my way.
Breathlessly, Maddie says, “Let me talk to him.”
“Don’t be weird,” I warn her as Jake approaches. “My friend Maddie would like to say hi,” I explain, offering an apologetic shrug. He grins and holds out his hand for the phone, completely unfazed.
“Oh my,” Maddie says when Jake turns the phone to face him. I can’t see her, but I imagine her expression is the same one she has when she’s at the pastry counter at Brooklyn Baklava, or any time Jacob Elordi is on-screen. “So you are real,” she purrs.
Jake pats around on his chest a few times, then he holds out his hand, turning it over in front of his face. “Looks that way.”
“Are you taking care of my Evie?” Maddie says.
“As much as she’ll allow, though I’d argue she doesn’t need taking care of.”
“That’s a five-star answer. Is she being grumpy about Christmas?”
“Still standing right here.” I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. When I look up again, he’s not looking at the phone—he’s looking at me, wearing a barely there smile. I swear there’s a tinge of smugness in it, too. “You could say that.”
“She’s basically Ebenezer Scrooge without the money,” Maddie continues. “Or the Grinch with a better skincare routine.”
“Point of order,” I say. “The Grinch and Scrooge were created by their circumstances.”
“Think I can change her mind?” He’s still looking at me when he answers Maddie.
“If you figure it out, please share. I can say, though, that if she starts ranting about capitalism or the inherent performativity of the holidays, get a peppermint latte in her hands right away. She’ll calm down for at least an hour.
Peppermint only, though. Peppermint mochas are too sweet, they give her a headache. ”
“All noted,” Jake says.
“Tell her to call me tonight when she gets back to Paperwhite.”
Jake nods. “Why does she not like—”
I lean over his arm to put my face in front of the screen. “We have to go. Food awaits.”
Jake starts to pass the phone back to me, but Maddie says, “Jake, wait.” When he pauses, she says, “You’re not a murderer, are you?”
He replies with one of his slanted smiles. “Only on the dance floor.”
Throughout the rest of the day, we share nearly everything without hesitation.
I have my first sausage roll (life-altering), a Scotch egg (not for me), and divine Prosecco with fresh oysters eaten straight from their shells.
The salt beef sandwich Jake and I share rivals the best corned beef sandwiches I’ve had in New York.
I get a cup of Italian olives so vibrantly green they could be strung together to make a Christmas garland.
I use a toothpick to eat them as we walk, and when I offer one to Jake, he declines, grimacing.
“Mother Nature’s failed first attempts at cherries,” he says.