When Jack asked Chloe to go skating, he hadn't considered the fact that he would actually have to — you know — skate.

He eyed the skating rink with trepidation. Families were gliding around a tall pine tree decked in red baubles and lights. The Natural History Museum towered over the ice, a riot of Gothic spires and terracotta gargoyles. A small, horse-like animal seemed to glare down at Jack disapprovingly.

You are an idiot, it said.

Jack shot it a dirty look. Stupid gargoyles. Next to him, Chloe was lacing up her skates with steady hands.

"You ready?" she chirped.

No.

"Of course," Jack lied. "I can't wait." He spotted a child teetering behind a plastic penguin with handles, and his heart lifted. "You need a penguin or anything?"

Because he did. Maybe he could steal Chloe's penguin, Jack mused. Make it look like he was jokingly skating with it. But Chloe merely rolled her eyes.

"Don't be stupid," she scoffed. "What are we, eight?"

Jack sighed.

No penguin it was, then.

They wobbled towards the ice. Jack clung to the sideboard with a vice-like grip. Screw bravery; this was life or death. Chloe shot him a bemused look.

"No offense," Chloe said, her brow quirking, "but I kind of thought you'd be better at this."

"Oh, shut-up, Cartwright."

Her eyebrows climbed even higher. "Cartwright?"

Ah. Crumbs. What did Logan normally call her again?

"Chlo-ster," Jack said quickly. "I meant Chlo-ster."

Thankfully, Chloe was distracted by the fact that they had now reached the center of the skating rink. Which was good. The part about her being distracted, of course; not Jack's imminent death, now that he had let go of the sideboard.

Jack looked wistfully at the exit.

"You know," he said, "we could always go for a pint instead."

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Come on, you."

She took his hand. Jack's heart lurched. They might be wearing mittens, but he could feel Chloe's heat radiating through the wool. Her jasmine perfume hung around them like a cloud, mixing with the dirty London streets and the smell of the pine tree.

Chloe chewed her lip as they glided around the rink. She was clearly trying to work up the courage to say something. But what?

"What's your favourite color?" she blurted.

"I—what?"

"Your favourite color," Chloe repeated, her cheeks flushing.

Oh, no. Was this a test of some sort? Jack wracked his brains, desperately sorting through everything he knew about his brother. Red? No. Logan was traumatized after being sunburned in Monaco as a child. Purple? Blue?

"Green!" Jack said, triumphant. "It's green!"

Chloe deflated slightly. "Oh."

"What?"

"No, nothing." Chloe waved him off. "I was just curious." She swiveled so that she was facing backwards. Bloody show-off. "What's your favourite band?"

This one was easier; Logan played the music on an endless loop in his car. It drove Jack absolutely mad.

"OneDirection," Jack said, and Chloe stared at him.

"As in the famous boyband?"

"Yes."

"With Louis and Harry?"

"That's the one."

"Okay." She processed this. "What about your favourite film?"

Jack sighed inwardly. What was this, twenty questions?

"What's your favourite film?" Jack shot back.

He already knew what it was, of course: Notting Hill. Chloe let go of his hand, weaving neatly around a pair of giggling girls snapping pictures. For being a nightmare on solid ground, Jack thought grudgingly, she sure wasn't bad on ice.

"Pulp Fiction," she said.

"No, it isn't."

"What?"

"Er." Jack coughed. Oops. Had he said that out loud? "It's Notting Hill, isn't it? Because you like Hugh Grant."

Chloe flushed deep red. "Did Jack tell you that?"

"Yup."

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "traitorous farse-hole." Jack tried not to take it personally.

"What's your biggest pet peeve?" she demanded.

Jack smirked. "Ugly jumpers."

Take that, Logan.

Chloe didn't miss a beat. "Most embarrassing childhood memory?"

"Wetting myself during a Christmas concert," Jack returned, thinking of Logan's infamous performance as the Third Wise Man. God, that was hysterical. He wished they had it on tape. "What's yours?"

To his surprise, Chloe grimaced.

"Don't ask me that."

Well, damn. Now Jack wanted to know.

"Come on," he urged. "What is it?"

She sighed. "Promise you won't tell Jack?"

Ah. Oh, dear. Jack weighed up his curiosity versus the maze of moral implications. It was a shamefully short debate.

"I swear," he said solemnly.

"Okay." Chloe puffed out her cheeks in a way that was unfairly adorable. "So you remember when we were all in primary school?"

"Yeah."

"And we had to bring in Valentine's Day cards?"

"Of course."

Jack would never forget the crippling terror of looking into the brown paper bag attached to your chair. Some kids never got cards. Others — flushed with success, their bags overflowing — would go on to become kings for the day. It was the Hunger Games of primary school.

Chloe was positively scarlet. "Well, remember when Jack got that card with a sheep on the front? And all of the kids took the piss?"

"I think it was a horse, actually," Jack said mildly.

"No." Chloe took a deep breath. "It was a sheep. I should know; I drew it."

He whipped around to stare at her. "I didn't know that."

"How could you?"

Chloe was looking at him oddly. Oh, right. Jack felt his ears turn red. Fortunately, Chloe was too preoccupied by moving her skates in a bubble formation to notice.

"Anyways, I was going to write 'I Fancy Ewe' on it and sign my name, but I got too nervous and I quit halfway through." She winced, rubbing the back of her neck. "Thank god. I'm embarrassed enough as it is."

Jack made a choking noise. "You fancied m—?" He caught himself. "Jack?"

"I mean, we were eight."

"Still."

"Don't worry," Chloe said, skating closer to bump his shoulder. "That's ancient history." She winked. "I fancy you, now."

And Jack — whose heart was still racing a million miles an hour — managed a weak smile.

Jack couldn't concentrate.

The rest of the day was a blur of mishaps. Jack got off at the wrong tube stop. Then, he failed his driver's test by blowing through a stop sign. And by the time he was at his University Challenge practice in the evening, all hell had broken loose.

"It's not that hard," Victor snapped. "Just think, Jack." He brandished his note card. "Awarded for her work on nuclear shell structure, who in 1963 was the second woman to win a Nobel Prize in Physics?"

"Er." Jack blinked. "Marie Curie?"

"No."

"Lise Meitner?"

"That's even worse."

"Oh, just leave him alone, Vic," Priya cut in. "He's clearly exhausted."

She winked at him, and Jack shot her a grateful smile. Priya was normally too preoccupied with doodling to notice when others were speaking, only answering any questions related to English literature. Victor, on the other hand — a high-strung astrophysics PhD student — ran each session like a bloody drill sergeant.

"We can't afford to be exhausted," Victor fired back. "Finals are in a week. A week, Priya. Do you think Durham is taking a nap right now?"

"Well, I—"

"Can you all pipe down?" Eddie whined, clutching his head. "Some of us aren't feeling well, you know."

Jack snorted. Eddie — a Fresher studying international relations — was always feeling a bit shit, usually as a result of ten pints of Guinness the previous night. If the bloke wasn't such a genius, Victor would have kicked him off the team long ago.

Normally, Jack had no time for Eddie. Today, however, he was sympathetic to his plight.

"Maybe we should call it a day," Jack said, reaching for his bag. "Try this again tomorrow when we're all on our game."

"Yes." Eddie stabbed a finger emphatically. "I second that."

"No," Victor hissed. "Not until Jack answers the question."

Jack cast his eyes skyward. Lord, give him strength.

"Is it Curie's daughter?" he tried. "Irène?"

"No."

"Gerty—"

"It's Maria god damn Goeppert Mayer," Eddie snapped. "Can we break this up now? I need some fluid before my liver gives out."

From there, Jack's day went from bad to worse.

He stopped by his parents' place in South Kensington to pick up a letter for Logan that had been sent to the wrong address. Jack had expected the chore to take two minutes. Five minutes and a cup of tea, tops.

What he hadn't expected was an ambush.

"Logan!"

He winced as his mother descended the stairs. Laura Winters was dressed in a floral kimono, her greying blonde hair piled on top of her head. But Jack wasn't fooled; her red nails might as well have been sharpened to a point. He was in trouble. Or rather, Logan was.

Sure enough, his mother gestured to a stool at the island.

"Take a seat, lovey," Laura said.

Jack balked. Oh, hell. His mother reserved "lovey" for only two occasions: when someone had died, or when her sons had stolen a golf cart for a joy ride around Devon, nearly killing two chickens in the process.

You know. Hypothetically.

"I'm actually in a rush," Jack lied. "So I—"

"Sit," Laura barked.

Jack did.

His mother smiled sweetly. "I heard you took Chloe skating today."

Jack blinked. How the hell did she know that?

"I've always liked Chloe, you know," Laura continued, ignoring his obvious surprise. "She's a smart girl. Good heart, too." She flicked on the kettle. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes."

"And very pretty."

His mother pinned Jack with her gaze. He swallowed.

"I'm sure she is," he said vaguely.

"Now, Logan, lovey," Laura said. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way." She poured steaming water into two Cath Kidston mugs with little blue flowers. "But I really think you should stop seeing Chloe, darling."

"I—what?"

"She's much too good for you," Laura continued, ignoring Jack's outburst. "And given your reputation with women—"

"My reputation?" Jack sputtered.

"Don't bother." His mother held up a hand. "I know what you're like, Logan Winters. I raised you, after all."

She calmly removed the tea bags. Jack stared at her. Christ. Did Logan have to deal with this on a regular basis? No wonder he never came to Sunday lunch with the family. Jack was sweating, and it had nothing to do with the radiator behind him.

"I don't want you to break her heart," Laura said. "You understand that, don't you?"

Jack nodded.

"Good," Laura said. "Besides, Jack is in love with her." She turned to the fridge. "Did you want milk in your tea, darling?"

Jack froze. "I— no, he's not!"

"Or sugar, perhaps?"

"Jack isn't in love with her," he said, his heart rocketing. "You're wrong."

"We have honey, too."

"Mum!"

She whirled around, arching an eyebrow. Jack had half-risen out of his seat, flattening his sweaty palms against the counter. He felt sick to his stomach. Sick, and a little like he wanted to smash that sweet little Cath Kidston mug against the wall.

"What makes you think that?" he croaked.

She gave him an odd look. "Well, it's not exactly rocket science, Logan. Aren't you supposed to be a journalist?"

"Does Chloe know?"

If Chloe knew, Jack would just pour arsenic into his tea right now. Spare himself the abject humiliation of facing her.

"Oh, Chloe has no idea, bless her," Laura said fondly. "I think she fancies herself a little in love with you, actually."

Jack decided that his mother would make an excellent private detective. Screw Sherlock Holmes; Laura Winters was in business. Well, except for the part where she couldn't tell her own twin sons apart, apparently, Jack mused. But minor details.

"I think you should invite her on the ski holiday," she added.

Jack blinked. "You— I—what?"

"Our ski holiday," Laura repeated. "The one in France next week? You should invite Chloe." She passed Jack his tea. "She's never been to Les Deux Alpes."

"You just said that you don't want me to see her."

"I don't want you to date her," Laura corrected him. "Those are very different." She sipped her tea. "Besides, it'll be good for her and Jack to spend some time together."

Jack smiled inwardly. Ah, irony. Is that you?

"Fine." He shrugged. "I'll invite her, then."

Or rather, Logan would.