CHAPTER EIGHT
Nine days until Christmas
I slept in my clothes last night. A reluctant glance in the mirror reveals that I’ve gone full-on bog witch. I might have to cut my hair out of my braid. I yawn loudly, and as soon as my feet touch the floor, I hear a man’s voice from downstairs.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
Jake.
“Yes. Good. Well.” The words come out more like a croak than human speech.
“You sound like you might be lying to me, love.” The bottom step squeaks. “Do you need help?”
“Respectfully, I would rather try to swim to the moon than have you see me right now.”
Every step of Paperwhite’s stairs is a key on a poorly tuned piano that only plays tortured creaking sounds. “Are you sure?”
I really don’t want him to see me like this, but my desire to see him wins out. Throwing back the curtain on the landing, I call down to him. “Jake. Wait.”
He’s halfway up the stairs, still in the clothes he was wearing last night. He has the most charming, chaotic bedhead I’ve ever seen.
Quietly, I say, “Why did you stay?”
He does the thing where he tilts his head sideways as he studies my face. Actual golden retriever behavior. “I didn’t want you taking a tumble down the stairs.”
“How would you stop me falling down the stairs … from the bottom of the stairs?”
“Who says I slept downstairs?”
I swallow hard. I have a misty memory of trying to kiss him at the end of the night, but he backed away. I don’t have any memory of him joining me in bed.
Hand on the railing, Jake takes a step down. “Now that I know you’re alive and well, I’ll be off. I’ll be back around four o’clock. Dress warm. We’ll be on the river tonight.”
I hop down a few more steps. “Jake, wait. Did we … um—”
“You really don’t know?”
“Oh my god—”
“Evie. Breathe. We did not.” He chuckles. “I promise, if we did—you’d remember it.”
* * *
About an hour before Jake is due to come round, I’m folding laundry and singing an off-key version of “Last Christmas” by Wham! to myself when there’s a knock at the door. It’s him. An hour early.
“If you heard my singing—no, you didn’t.”
He gives me a mock stern look. “I heard some Christmas spirit happening in here, Evie.”
“Ha, ha.”
Tonight, Jake wears dark, loose denim and a chunky cream cable-knit crewneck sweater, perfect for a winter evening cruise on the Thames. But there’s something in his hand that doesn’t fit the vibe. It’s a big metal toolkit, and it looks brand-new.
I take a step backwards and let him in. “What’s this?”
“I’m going to fix your leaky sink.”
“How did you know it was leaky?”
He goes to the kitchenette and sets the toolbox down on the floor. Hands on his hips, he studies the sink for a moment, then he glances at me. “I spent the night here, remember? I noticed.”
He noticed. And now he’s going to do something about it. For me. How novel.
“I’ve tried calling the property manager about it since the day after I arrived,” I say.
Jake effortlessly lowers to a squat like his knees are hydraulic-powered. He opens the cabinet doors under the sink and shines a flashlight. “You’re used to American plumbers and American responsiveness. Here, it might be weeks before you even get a response out of the property manager.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “So you know how to fix a sink?”
Jake looks up at me and smiles. “Nope. But I watched a few YouTube videos.” He stands just as smoothly as he crouched, and before I have a chance to say anything else, he’s raising his arms high to lift his sweater over his head.
Then he slips his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and sets it on the kitchenette countertop.
Face-up. It’s a tiny thing, but it’s a huge green flag.
Calvin had always been so secretive. I couldn’t even tell you what his phone’s wallpaper was.
Jake hands his sweater to me, and I take it from him without hesitation, like this is something we’ve done a thousand times before. “Don’t want to muck it up,” he says.
It’s still warm from his body. The feel of it in my hands makes goosebumps rise along the back of my neck. I actually have to restrain myself from pressing it to my face and breathing him in.
“You planning to supervise?” His grin is slanted, playful.
“Do you want an audience?”
Jake lowers himself to the floor again. He doesn’t answer, but he chuckles and shakes his head. I’m not sure how to interpret it.
I’ve only ever seen him in bulky knits and coats, so this is my first glimpse of what he’s got going on underneath the heavy clothing.
The undershirt he wears is a pale dove gray, and trim to his body.
It’s not tight, but every time he stretches forward or twists to either side, his shoulder blades ripple under the fabric.
His arms are taut with lean muscle, with a few subtle veins running the length of his forearms. My catnip.
I peek around him to get a glimpse inside the toolbox. Spanners, screwdrivers, a heavy-looking claw hammer I’m almost certain has nothing to do with plumbing. Everything is brand-new, much of it still in the packaging. He bought all of it so he could do this one small thing.
For me.
* * *
So this is the Thames.
The gangway rocks gently underfoot as a boat passes by. We’re greeted onboard the small private craft by a white-gloved captain. Nearby, Tower Bridge looms over the Thames, its gothic spires underlit with festive gold and green. The river wears it like a crown.
We step onto the deck and down into a wood-paneled cabin.
Jake pours mugs of warm mulled wine for each of us, and he carries mine for me as we make our way up to the aft deck.
It’s open to the night air, with a plush settee built in below the rails.
Heavy boating blankets sit folded in a tidy stack, wool on one side, polar fleece on the other.
A simple evergreen wreath hangs from the back railing, and golden LED tracklights glow at our feet.
As we cast off, the surface of the Thames reflects a spill of candy-colored light from the city in the distance. Stars freckle the sky, crystalline bright in the way they only ever seem to be on clear winter nights like this.
“Before we get too far from shore, I have a confession,” Jake says.
“I like confessions.”
“I used to get motion sickness as a kid.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Haven’t been on a boat in a while.”
I laugh. “Why did you choose this as our date, then?”
Jake smiles. “Because there’s nothing that sparkles like the Thames at night during the festive season. Worth the risk.”
For a while, we sit in silence, rocking with the rhythm of the river.
“I keep a baby spoon in my kitchen back home,” I say, contributing my own confession. “I use it when I eat ice cream, to make it last longer.”
“Brilliant,” Jake says. “I don’t understand the worldwide obsession with Star Wars—”
“How dare you.” I clutch imaginary pearls at my collarbone.
“—or Lord of the Rings—”
“Get out.” I fling my arm straight out to point at the water.
Jake’s laugh is brighter than all the lights of the city in the distance.
Once the boat picks up speed, it’s colder.
I gather one of the blankets over my legs, lifting the edge closest to Jake in invitation.
He scoots closer, and I have to rest my thigh lengthwise against his in order for us both to be fully covered.
It only takes seconds for a radiant little zone of body heat to form between us.
On the bank in the distance, tiny lights move erratically. They look like people with flashlights and headlamps.
“What’s happening over there?”
“Mudlarking, most likely.”
“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds like something I want to do.”
“Larking about—you don’t say that in the States?”
I shake my head.
“It’s like … frivolous fun. A playful adventure.
Mudlarking is just what it sounds like—adults mucking about in the mud on the Thames.
They’re looking for old artifacts that the low tide exposes.
Coins, bits of old pottery, clay pipes, ink pots.
My sister found a diamond ring once. Someone probably chucked it off a bridge. ”
“Mudlarking is the best thing I’ve ever heard of. It’s like … thrifting, but in nature.”
Jake laughs.
“I’m serious. I’ve never wanted to do something more in my life. Would your sister take me someday?” As soon as the words are out, my insides drop like I’m on a rollercoaster. My somedays in London are limited, and they certainly don’t include cozying up to Jake’s family.
Jake, bless him, doesn’t make it awkward. If he finds what I said weird and presumptuous, he doesn’t show it. “I’m sure she’d love to, but there’s a licencing process. People can’t just pop down to the shore and start digging.”
“Do you have other siblings? Wait, wait—I know the answer already. You have a big family, and it’s perfect.
” I do a slow, arcing flourish of my hand in front of us.
“You have four siblings. No, six. Your family is basically modern-day Bridgerton. You’re all supernaturally beautiful, and you’re all intensely protective of each other even though you argue. ”
Jake nods appreciatively. “I have two brothers. Four sisters. Well, one is a brother-in-law, and one is a sister-in-law. All with considerably superior personal hygiene to Regency Londoners, I’m sure. Otherwise, yep. Bang on.”
“You consider your siblings’ spouses as your own siblings?”
Jake cocks his head to the side. “Don’t you?”
“Not really. My sisters are all older. They’ve got families of their own in Colorado, Texas, and one in Toronto.”
Calvin had a big family. When we were together, I felt like I was part of it.
We’d meet with his parents for lunch a few times a month, and I built friendships with his sisters.
Over the two years we were together, I even went on a handful of day trips and weekend overnights with them.
I treasured those moments. It was the family I’d always wished for.
Once it ended, not a single one of them reached out to me.