Jack was a bundle of nerves.

He glanced around his  parents' South Kensington flat, packed with faux pine trees, elegant  nutcrackers holding champagne, and socialites dressed in gold silk and burgundy taffeta. His parents were singing carols by the piano. His cousin Hattie and her boyfriend were doing a ridiculous jig next to them. It was a beautiful scene, really.

Shame Jack might  ruin it by vomiting on the floor.

He tugged at his tie. God, it was hot in here. Why on earth was it so bloody hot?

He grabbed a miniature  salmon sandwich from a passing waiter, stuffing it viciously into his  mouth. Chloe still hadn't arrived. He had been casually — okay,  desperately — searching for her for the last hour, but there was no sign  of her anywhere.

Her parents, on the other hand, were holding court near a towering four-layer cake in the shape of the mouse king.

"How are you, Amanda? Been up to much?"

"Oh, nothing much, John, darling; I must admit that I'm slightly jet-lagged, though; I got back from a vineyard in Italy yesterday, you see."

"How delightful! I just bought a French vineyard. A small one, mind you, so it's really nothing much."

"Did you? I happen to be dating a French chef. He's won a few awards, but it's really nothing much, so I doubt you'll have heard of him."

Jack took a gulp of his wine. Yikes. He was grateful that Chloe was missing out on today's Battle of Nothing Much, at least.

But where the hell was she?

He glanced around. She  was coming, wasn't she? He couldn't handle waiting another few days to  speak to her. Not after giving her the bracelet. Or, more to the point, a  card confessing his feelings. He might as well have torn out his heart  and gift-wrapped it for her.

Crumbs.

Maybe Jack had frightened her. Maybe his declaration of love had—

Jack felt a small hand  tap his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. But it was only  Kate, looking radiant in a green gown.

"No sign of her yet, huh?"

Jack winced. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes. Yes, you are."

"God, I'm pathetic."

She toasted him with her champagne. "Better than being apathetic."

"Who's apathetic?"

Logan materialized next  to them. He was dressed in a black suit jacket, with a moss-green tie —  the same color as Kate's dress. Jack blinked, thrown, as Logan wrapped  an arm around Kate's waist, tugging her closer.

"Hello, darling." He kissed her cheek. "I was wondering where you'd gone to."

"Hang on." Jack narrowed his eyes. "Since when is this a thing?" He gestured between the two of them. "How the hell did that happen?"

Logan smirked. "Kate said she fancied me."

"And?"

"It turns out that I fancy her, too."

Jack stared at him. "And that was it? Just like that?"

"That was it." Logan shrugged. "We don't all turn our love lives into three-act soap operas, mate. This isn't Shakespeare."

"I certainly hope not," Jack muttered.

Particularly given how "Romeo and Juliet" ended. Poor sods.

Logan plucked Kate's  champagne out of her hand, sipping it casually. "Oh, I forgot to tell  you, Jackster; Chloe's looking for you."

Jack almost spilled his wine. "What?"

"Chloe?" Logan blinked  innocently. "Dark-haired, clumsy, short fuse?" He held out a hand to  shoulder level. "Stands about yay high—"

"She's here?"

"Outside." Logan's eyes glittered with amusement. "On the balcony."

Jack didn't need to be told twice.

He found her leaning against the railing.

Even now, Jack couldn't  help but be stunned by her beauty. She was wearing a red dress — the  same burgundy as the night they met, so many years ago — and her dark  hair was pulled up into a knot of curls. Her eyes were fixed on the  Shard as he came to stand beside her.

"No jacket?" he asked.

Chloe shook her head.  "It's warmer tonight." She lifted her wrist, and there was a flash of  silver. "Thank you for your present, by the way; the bracelet. It's  beautiful."

Jack swallowed. "It suits you."

It was the card that he  was more concerned about, though. Had she read it? Chloe's dark eyes  reflected the millions of pinpricks of light, like twin parallel  galaxies. When she looked at him, her cheeks were flushed.

"Here. This is for you."

She passed him a parcel. Jack looked at her uncertainly.

"You didn't have to—"

"Just open it," she said.

He examined the gift.  Even in the darkness, he could see the clumsy places where the golden  wrapping paper didn't quite meet, the exposed tape at the corners. His  lips twitched. Classic Chloe Cartwright.

He ripped into it, and a book fell into his hands.

Jack took in the title, and he snorted.

"Learn How To Ski," Jack read aloud, shaking his head. "For god's sake, Cartwright, I wasn't that bad."

"You were."

"I was picking it up."

"You were picking objects up," Chloe corrected him. "Usually pine branches and rocks as you somersaulted down the mountain."

She finally turned to  face him. There was a smile playing on her lips, and Jack hugged the  book to his chest. He didn't miss the undertone of the gift. It's okay to joke about this now, Chloe seemed to say. I'm still mad as heck, but I'm starting to forgive you.

Well, Chloe wouldn't say  "mad as heck," actually, Jack mused. She'd probably say something much  more explicit. Involving a word that rhymed with "duck."

But that was the general idea.

"Thank-you," he said. "I mean, bit rude, but thank you."

He expected Chloe to smile. But she swallowed, her hands making fluttering gestures, like two small white birds.

"Open the book."

He gave her an odd look. "What, now? At the party?"

"Yes."

"No offense, but I'm not seeing any mountains nearby. I don't think it's a matter of great urgency."

"Oh, shut-up, Winters," Chloe said, rolling her eyes. "Open it."

Jack did so. A piece of  paper wedged in the front cover caught his eye, and he drew it out, his  breath catching. Bloody hell. Could it be...?

Holy crumbs.

It was.

Chloe had given him a  card with a hand drawn sheep on the front. Over top of it, the red words  spelled out 'I Fancy Ewe' in messy scrawl. Much like her Valentine's  Day card when they were eight, it bore an odd, slightly disturbing  resemblance to Silence of the Lambs.

Jack loved it.

"I signed it this time," she whispered. "So you'd know who it was from."

Jack swallowed hard. The  whole present was just so Chloe: a clumsy cover concealing layers of  warmth and humor, and then — for those that could be bothered to look  hard enough — a secret sliver of heart.

Bloody hell.

What was it about this  girl that turned Jack into a romantic? Who else would inspire him to  crouch down on a dirty London street in a fruitless attempt to pry a  cheap high heel out of a sewer grate?

He was an idiot.

An idiot in love with this girl.

His throat was thick, and he felt the oddest burning sensation in his chest. Crumbs. Was he about to cry? He needed to pull it together. Logan would never let him live it down if he started bawling on their parents' balcony.

"Well?" Chloe hopped from foot to foot. "Say something."

"I..."

Nope. He was still going to cry. Best to stay silent.

"Oh, no, you hate it,"  Chloe groaned. "It's too cheesy, isn't it? I knew it." Her cheeks flared  bright red. "Or I've completely misread the signs and you don't fancy  me at all. That's it, isn't it? Oh, my god, I'm such an idiot, and I—"

Jack kissed her.

He couldn't stop his  hands from trembling slightly as he cupped her face. He kissed her  softly. Slowly. All of their other kisses had been rushed things —  desperate, even — but he was going to get this one right, damn it. Even  if it killed him.

Kiss me back, he thought despairingly. Come on, Chloe, kiss me back.

Slowly, Chloe stretched up on her tiptoes, meeting him halfway. And Jack felt like he was soaring.

She tasted like red wine  and gingerbread. Her cloud of jasmine perfume was intoxicating, and  Jack would have happily drowned in it, happily spent his whole life  tumbling down hills and making an idiot of himself on skating rinks if  it meant being with her. Hell, he suspected that he would do anything.  Go anywhere.

"Jack," she whispered. "Look."

Jack looked up dizzily.

Snowflakes fell thick  and fast, gathering on the black railings and in Chloe's sooty lashes.  Jack blinked. It never snowed in London; the city was an itchy grey blanket, plagued by freezing rain and low-hanging fog.

But it had snowed, what? Three times this December?

Four?

Jack didn't believe in miracles — being a scientist encouraged a healthy level of skepticism — but in that moment, he was tempted to believe in something beyond coincidence. Fate, maybe. Or the pull of energy.

His mother's antique grandfather clock struck twelve. A great cheer went up inside the house, and somewhere, a string quartet started to play.

"Happy Christmas, Jack," Chloe murmured.

He pressed the back of his cold hand to her flushed cheeks, reveling in the warmth. "Happy Christmas, my darling."

Jack pulled her into his arms, kissing her again. Snow fluttered to the ground, caught in the warm yellow glow of the iron lamp posts below. And the Thames lay out  below them, a glittering black ribbon, carrying away old boots and  silver coins, sleigh bells and pine branches, and secret kisses in the  dark.