CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three days to Christmas
The morning after my self-imposed solo day, I wake up on my own before nine o’clock.
By five minutes past nine, I’ve sent Jake a text to ask when I can see him, but by ten, he hasn’t responded.
When I stop in at Grey Earl’s, he’s not there either.
Quinn and Cherry tell me he hasn’t been in today, and when I grab a takeaway coffee instead of lingering at the bar for a chat, I get matching looks of concern.
“Evie, is everything OK?” Cherry calls as I head to the door.
Pausing with my hand on the jamb, I turn with a tentative smile. “Not yet. But it will be.”
I stop at the piazza Christmas tree in our spot.
As soon as I get there, I feel absurd. Jake Frost doesn’t just hang out in the Covent Garden piazza in the cold, hoping to catch a glimpse of me.
I replay that last bit of our conversation two days ago, trying to figure out if there was any way he might have thought I was breaking things off rather than asking for a short breather.
A wave of anxiety ripples through my belly.
It’s similar to what I felt my first few days in London when I thought I’d missed my chance to meet him that night at Somerset House.
But now, it’s magnified. Now, I know exactly what I’ll be missing if I never see him again.
* * *
There’s one more place I can check.
The Evie who arrived in London would have never done this. That Evie would’ve accepted defeat easily, chalking it up to a misunderstanding or miscommunication, or I guess he’s really not that into me. But that’s not me anymore.
I’ve made it as far as the lobby of Jake’s building.
But the private elevator to the penthouse only opens with a keycard, so I can’t just pop up there and knock on the door.
There’s a console on the wall with a doorbell and a call system, though.
I press the call button and a little LED lights up green. I’m live, I guess?
“Um. Hi. It’s me. So … you told me I’d know where to find you, but I haven’t been able to yet. Are you there?”
No answer.
“I wonder if this thing is recording? Like one of those old answering machines?”
I feel ridiculous. I’m standing here talking to a wall. Still no reply from Jake when I check my phone again.
“I guess I just want you to know that I want to spend Christmas with you. Meet your family. All of it. If—” I have to swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat. “If you, um, still want me to.”
“I very much do,” says a soft, deep voice behind me.
It’s Jake. He starts towards me with purpose, his long legs closing the distance between us in the time it takes me to suck in a bracing breath.
“You’re here,” he says.
“I’m here.”
He’s very festive today in a burgundy turtleneck sweater and cream corduroy pants.
Both his hands are full of shopping bags, but the moment he stops in front of me, he drops them at our feet to cradle my face in his palms. Then he’s kissing me, his warm breath gusting across my cheek, his tongue moving against mine in languid greeting.
I twist my fists in the front of his sweater and make a low sound of pleasure in my throat.
He doesn’t pause the kiss as he reaches behind me to press his keycard against the sensor to call the elevator.
When it arrives, he picks up the bags, this time all in one hand. The moment he’s upright again, his mouth is back on mine. He wraps his free arm low around my back, waltzing me into the elevator, mirroring my backward steps with his forward ones.
God, I’ve missed this man terribly, and we were only apart for a day. It’s going to wreck me when I have to leave for good. For the next seven days, I’m going to cling to every bit of happiness while it’s here for the taking.
He drags his teeth along my bottom lip like he’s reluctant to stop kissing me long enough to speak. “Were you waiting long? I figured you’d sleep until at least noon.”
“I had a very good reason to get up early,” I say against his mouth. “But if you keep this up, I’m going to have to insist we go back to bed once those elevator doors open.”
He does.
And we do.
* * *
Sun streams in through the big windows and skylights, flooding the place with sweet light the color of lemonade.
I’ve got a leg thrown over Jake’s belly, and he’s got a loose grip on my naked hip.
With my fingertips, I make tiny little swirls in the feather-soft hair across his chest. “Are we calling today a date? You promised me twelve dates to fall in love.”
“With Christmas.” Jake raises a finger. “And London.”
“Of course. We need to keep the scope realistic.”
“What number would today be, then? Nine?”
“Hmm, by my calculations, it’s ten, if we count the ghost tour.”
“I thought you were skeptical about whether that counted as a date?” Jake teases. “There was nary a single fond glance that night. No handholding. Certainly no kiss.”
“Good point.” I make a theatrically thoughtful face, scrunching my brow, pinching my lips tight. “But, in retrospect, I wanted to do all those things. Surely that counts for something?”
“Right. Date number ten, then. Let’s consult the advent calendar to see what’s on for today.” He grabs his phone from the bedside table and taps around on the screen. “Huh.”
I sit up straighter. “What is it?”
His hair falls into his eyes when he looks up. He swings it off his forehead with a quick jerk of his chin. “It says: ‘mutual wank in the bath.’”
“It does not.” I snatch the phone out of his hand. The only thing on the screen is his wallpaper. I hand the phone back and shove him gently in the arm. “Menace.”
Laughing, he taps a finger to his temple. “My brain is our date advent calendar, love. Let’s call today’s date: ‘Evie’s choice.’”
“Oh my, I’m positively mad with power.” I rub my hands together. “How will I choose?”
“What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
“Let’s stay in,” I say. “We can call it ‘Evie and Jake’s Date of Domestic Bliss.’ Let’s pretend, just once, this is real life.”
The playfulness drains out of Jake as quick as if I’d pulled a plug. “This is real life, Evie.”
I lay my hand on his arm. “And you know what I mean.”
We’re quiet for a while. He covers my hand with his, then he flips it to thread his fingers between mine. Grazing his thumb across my knuckles, he says, “We can’t stay in all day. My fridge and pantry are empty. And we leave for the Cotswolds tomorrow, you know.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And if this were real life, you’d probably spend the night.” He meets my eyes. “For practical reasons. Early start, and all that.”
I blink up at him. “Oh, of course.”
“So I suppose the first order of business is to pop round to your flat to collect your things.”
* * *
When we finally get out of bed later that afternoon, Jake drives us to Paperwhite and I throw together an overnight bag to last through the end of the week. Afterwards, we head to a supermarket to stock up for our date of domestic bliss.
“Have you noticed yet how most of what we do together revolves around food?” I say to Jake as I push a trolley along the produce aisle.
Jake puts a head of broccoli in. “Foundational to any good relationship, really.”
He says it so casually. Relationship. He’s not even looking at me as he says it—he’s got his bottom lip thoughtfully pushed out as he peruses the selection of fresh garlic bulbs.
Even more remarkable is that I don’t get that nagging sensation of static in my brain as he says it.
This is a relationship now, regardless of what happens to it at the end of the month.
“This is one of Maddie’s relationship tests. Shopping for groceries without a list.”
Jake gives me one of his lopsided smiles. “Are we passing the test?”
“I’m not sure what the passing criteria are, actually. I suppose we’re winning if we’re not sniping at each other.”
“Tell me more.” He puts a few lemons in the trolley.
“Well, at the very least, she says a new couple should build IKEA furniture together at least once. If they really want to test compatibility, maybe they do without the instructions.”
“Diabolical.”
“Also—a cross-country road trip with no GPS, so they have to use paper maps.”
“Sounds dystopian,” he says.
“Camping trip, but it’s raining, and they arrive late. So they have to set up their tent in the dark.”
“Nightmarish.”
“And for me personally—I’d need to spend at least an hour or two in a bookstore with a prospective partner. If they rush me, I’m out.”
“I’d spend all day there with you just to be able to watch you do that little lip-nibble thing you do when you’re concentrating.”
“What lip-nibble thing?” I laugh.
“The one where you pull your top lip in, and I can see your bottom teeth. It’s adorable.”
“I didn’t even realize I did that.”
“Well,” Jake drops a kiss on the top of my head, “I reckon I spend a lot more time looking at you than you do.”
At the edge of the produce section, a few poinsettias and sad-looking potted fir trees in festive wicker baskets sit lined up on the floor.
Impulsively, I bend to lift one of the firs into the cart while Jake has his back turned to peruse the tomatoes.
It bangs against the bottom of the metal basket when I set down the heavy pot, and a few dry needles drop to the floor.
Jake glances over his shoulder—first at me, then at the conifer in our trolley. He turns in slow motion, his brow creased, eyes narrowed. Then he comes close and says in a hushed tone, “Who are you, and what have you done with my Evie?”
I pop up on my toes to drop a kiss on his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Jake.”
* * *