Jack wished women were as easy to understand as biology.

But alas.

He sighed, staring at the endless display cases of jewelry. Golden necklaces, ruby-encrusted rings, feathered brooches — short of Marie Antoinette's personal collection of watches, Harrods had pulled out all the stops this year.

Not that Jack was any less clueless.

"Excuse me," he called. "Can I get some help?"

A pretty redheaded sales associate materialized a moment later. She was chewing bubblegum the way that some people chain-smoked.

"Yes?" she demanded.

"Sorry," Jack said, slightly sheepish. "I'm trying to find something for a—" He hesitated. "For a friend, and I'm a little lost."

A lot lost, actually.

"Columbus-on-his-way-to-India" sort of lost.

The girl's expression softened. Oh, hell. Jack was clearly as subtle as a fist to the face. Was it that obvious that he liked Chloe?

"What sort of jewelry does she normally wear?"

Jack scratched his head. That was a good question, actually; what on earth did Chloe normally wear? Hoops? Statement necklaces? Tasseled nipple rings?

Crap.

Maybe Jack should just throw in the towel and get her more Superman comics. Or socks with Henry Cavill's face on them. Screw the whole jewelry idea.

But, no; he was getting Chloe a proper Christmas gift this year. A serious one. Even if it killed him. His cousin, Hattie, had suggested a trendy piece of jewelry — and given that she was a fashion designer, he was inclined to listen to her.

So here he was.

Panicking.

The redhead was still staring at him expectantly. Jack cleared his throat.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Necklaces? Bracelets?"

"Bracelets," Jack said, seizing on it. "She has some of those. Silver ones."

The girl seemed to be trying hard not to smile. Jack heavily suspected that "silver ones" was not a super helpful description.

"What sort of bracelets?" she asked.

"Er." Jack thought of Chloe arriving on his parents' doorstep yesterday, pissed out of her mind and missing a shoe. "Indestructible ones?"

"She's clumsy, huh?"

"Yeah."

"My flatmate, too," the redhead told him, drawing a key from her pocket. "She's always tripping over things." She unlocked the display case. "Maybe a cuff of some sort?"

Jack eventually chose a sturdy-looking silver bangle with etchings of flowers and vines. Chloe always wore jasmine perfume. More importantly, she had dressed up as Blossom from the Powerpuff Girls for Halloween when they were ten — an iconic look that Jack intended to immortalize in jewelry.

He made his way patiently through the throngs of shoppers, some of whom had their faces pressed to the glass of the festive window displays. London was already growing dark, and Harrods was lit up like a gingerbread house with golden glitter. The air smelled like sticky, honey-coated roasted peanuts.

His stomach growled.

God, those smelled amazing. Stupid peanut allergy; it always prevented Jack from having the finer things in life.

"Jack!"

He suffered a minor heart attack.

"Chloe," he said hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"

She was leaning against the stone barrier of Knightsbridge tube station, dressed in a white puffer that swallowed her small frame. Two dark braids poked out underneath her fuzzy white hat. She looked adorable, Jack realized dazedly. Absolutely bloody adorable.

Why did the world hate him?

Chloe's hands were wrapped around two red Costa cups, and Jack hardly noticed when she passed the second one to him.

"Here," she said. "A peace offering."

"What is it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be daft."

Jack grinned. Sure enough, the taste of orange hot chocolate flooded his mouth. God, that stuff was heaven. He loved it more than anything else.

Well, almost anything.

"Stalking me?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

"You should be so lucky."

"Seriously, Cartwright. How'd you find me?"

Chloe raised her phone, waggling it. Jack groaned. The FindMyFriends app, of course. He was an idiot. For someone that was studying for a Master's in science, his grasp on everyday technology was shocking. Admittedly, biology was a bit different than computer science. But still.

"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "About yesterday."

Jack waved her off. "It's fine."

"It's not fine. I was a train wreck."

Jack glanced at her sideways. A cute train wreck. He wasn't brave enough to say it, though; not like Logan would have been.

"Did you manage to find your shoe?" he asked instead.

She winced. "Alas, I think the sewer grate won that round. Probably best to leave it. Which is a shame, since it's my favourite pair of heels."  Her eyes flicked to his bag. "Hang on. What's that?"

Ah, crumbs. Jack could kick himself.

"It's nothing," Jack blurted, which — of course — was exactly what a liar would say. "It's mittens," he clarified. "For my mother."

Chloe's face lit up. "Can I see them?"

Double crumbs.

"They're a surprise," Jack said quickly.

"A surprise," Chloe repeated slowly. "For Laura."

"Yes."

"But I can't see them."

"No."

"You're kind of weird, Winters," Chloe said, nudging him. "You know that, right?"

Jack's mouth felt dry. She was grinning up at him, and he could see her cute little left dimple. He bloody loved that dimple. He wanted to carve it into her face forever.

Not in like, a serial killer way, though.

In a romantic way.

Ugh.

His stomach knotted. In just over 48 hours, he would give Chloe the bracelet. Jack had it all planned out in his head: he would whisk her on to the balcony of his parents' house, overlooking the Shard, where they had met exactly 15 years ago. And then Jack would confess his feelings. Finally.

Preferably without chundering.

Or throwing himself off the balcony.

Chloe frowned. "You okay? You look sort of pale."

"I'm good," Jack said hoarsely.

And he would be.

Just as soon as he told Chloe how he felt.

Later, Jack would curse his own romantic notions.

But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn't hard to track down Chloe's lost shoe; there were only so many routes that she could have taken from the pub to his parents' house. And sure enough, Jack found the heel wedged in a grate just off of Hyde Park Corner.

He crouched down, surveying the shoe. Chloe had really done a number on it. How the hell had she managed to get it so far in there?

A flash of colour caught his eye. Bicycle wheels swerved violently, followed by the delayed angry ding of a bell.

"Oi, mate!" the cyclist snapped. "Get out of the way!"

Jack flushed. "Sorry!"

Oh, fudge. He was right in the middle of foot traffic, wasn't he? But this would only take a second. Jack seized the heel, pulling hard. The bloody thing didn't budge an inch.

"Get your arse off the road, you twat!"

"Sorry!" Jack yanked at the heel. "My bad!"

Jack was panting hard now, and he loosened his tie. He wasn't exactly a regular at the gym, but come on — how hard could this be?

"Get on the pavement, dickhead!"

Jack grunted, hardly bothering to acknowledge the third cyclist. For god's sake; he designed some of the most complex ecosystem models out there. He would not be outsmarted by a £20 pair of high heels from H&M.

"Watch out!"

Jack's head snapped up. He had the brief impression of colours — a black wheel, yellow stockings, a triangular green hat — and then he was flung backwards. There was a crack. Stars exploded in front of his eyes. Searing pain ripped through his skull, and he groaned, curling up into a ball.

Was this it?

Was he dying?

"Mate." Someone was shaking his shoulders. "You okay?"

Jack cracked open one eye. Pointed ears swam into view. Yup. He was definitely dead. And angels looked like elves.

This particular angel let out a string of very angry expletives.

"For feck's sake," the stranger muttered. "What were you doing lying about in the middle of the road, you eejit?"

Angels were also Irish, apparently.

Jack blinked. "Am I dead?"

"Are you—?" The stranger blinked right back. "No. You're just a twat."

Well. That solved that, then. Jack struggled into a seated position, pressing a hand to his throbbing forehead. The angel — well, more of an angry-looking, bearded elf, now that he was able to see properly — cleared his throat.

"Do you need a medic?"

"I—" Jack blinked dizzily. "I am a medic."

He paused. Or, at least, he was; he had studied medicine for his first year at university before switching programmes. To what? Oh, yeah. Biology.

Crap.

Maybe he had hit his head.

"Well, do you want my contact details?" the elf demanded.

"Your what?"

"I ran you over," the man said slowly. "With my unicycle." He nodded to an abandoned contraption nearby. "Do you want to sue, or not?"

"Um." Jack rubbed his face. "No?"

The elf's face relaxed. "Excellent!" He hopped to his feet. "Best of luck, mate." He clapped Jack on the back. "Try to avoid lying down on busy roads in future, yeah?"

And with that, the elf unicycled away.

Jack looked morosely at where Chloe's heel was still wedged in the sewer grate. Nah, mate. Screw that. The pigeons could have it.

He staggered back to his flat, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Who the bloody hell did he think he was? Prince sodding Charming? Jack pulled out his keys. That was the last time he tried to reenact Cinderella; Disney had lied to him. In a big way.

He flicked on the lights. Then Jack caught sight of himself in a mirror, and he groaned.

A shiny black bruise was blooming above his left eye.

Oh, hell.

He was going to ruin all of the family pictures at the cocktail party on Thursday; his mum would kill him.