Charlie cleared her throat and took a small step back. Jake’s hands dropped from her waist. He touched his lips—where hers had been only a moment before—with his thumb.

“I know you have a shift tonight, but can I make you dinner? Tomorrow night?” What was she doing? Also, she couldn’t figure out if she was more worried he’d say “yes,” or that he’d decline the offer. “As a thank-you for saving Gateau?”

Jake waited a beat before answering, then, “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” Charlie murmured, still clinging to Gateau, who was now squirming to break free. “How’s seven?”

“Seven is good,” Jake replied. “But I get to be your sous chef, okay? I’m no slouch in the kitchen. At least that’s what they tell me at the firehouse.”

“Sous chef it is.”

“Well, then. It’s a date.” Charlie liked the way Jake smiled shyly as he said it. She knew she needed to find a way to tell Jake she wasn’t Cass, but that was a problem she didn’t need to solve tonight.

9

Cass

Friday: 8 Days Until Christmas . . .

Los Angeles

As Cass spun in front of her sister’s full-length mirror, evaluating her choice of lavender sundress and denim jacket she’d found in Charlie’s closet, she knew she wasn’t as done up as Charlie would have been for a date, but she looked pretty good. And then she stopped, staring at her reflection as she realized this was her first-ever first date.

She and Brett had just drifted into becoming a couple. And sure, as they’d gotten older, they had begun to go on actual dates, but there had never been a moment like this. It was brand-new to Cass, and it made her instantly nervous.

She added a pair of buttery leather flat sandals to her outfit and confronted herself in the mirror again. Maybe it wasn’t a date. Maybe Miguel had only been trying to be friendly when he’d asked her out. He had said it was a thank-you for the tickets. Maybe that’s all it was—his way of showing his gratitude.

Cass couldn’t decide if that made her feel better—she wouldn’t be complicating Charlie’s life in an unnecessary way if it wasn’t a date—or worse. Stop overthinking this. Just get yourself to the damn restaurant.

She walked out into the mild Santa Monica night, marveling at the idea that just a few hours away her hometown was buried in snow. She took out her phone and checked reflexively for a reply from Charlie. She had managed to get through to the bakery’s landline earlier: Walter had answered and told her that “Cass” was outside dealing with the flour delivery but that he’d deliver the message that “Charlie” needed a call back. Cass had longed to ask him how things were going at the bakery—but he had sounded busy and she could hear customers in the background.

Crossing the street, she walked half a block until she saw the soft light from the bistro’s windows spilling out onto the sidewalk. A hand-painted sign read fabrizio’s. She hesitated, her nerves awakening. Then she took a breath, smoothed a hand over her sleek ponytail, and walked into the restaurant.