Almost Lover Page 2

  I never chicken out, no matter the weather. We usually only do it in spring. As many of my fellow club members like to remind me, you’d have to be off your rocker to get naked outside in a Denmark winter. I’ve been off my rocker a few times. Maybe I like free beer. Or maybe I like surprising other people.

  I stroll up the hilly yard toward my house, passing my brother, Erik, who stands close to the porch. “Did you scare them all away? Admit it—they cringed in terror, scary movie–style.”

  I slash an arm through the air. “Whole boatload of them. Tears, shrieks of horror. Wailing.”

  He cringes dramatically.

  “Toss me a towel, will you? Or do you want to continue to admire your more fit and handsome younger brother?”

  Erik scoffs and throws the towel over the porch railing, away from me.

  I shrug. “I’ll just go inside, and you can check out my arse.”

  “You can count on me never ever checking out your arse.”

  I grab the handle on the sliding-glass door and head inside to one of my homes. You can’t beat a home on the water. But then, a flat in Paris is hard for me to say no to as well. Good thing I get to have both.

  I grab the pair of boxer briefs I left on the couch and tug them on as Erik follows me inside.

  “Seriously. How did it go?”

  “Exceptionally well. I landed a date tonight.”

  “Bastard. You’re not supposed to get dates when you flash the tourists, and especially not when your beloved brother is only in town with you for a few days.” Most of the time Erik’s in London, where we were raised.

  “Jealous much?” I ask, heading for the fridge and pouring a glass of cold water.

  Erik flexes a bicep, then another, posing like he’s Mr. Olympia. “I’ve scored plenty of dates with this fabulous physique. Just none lately.”

  “That would be because you’re married, you tosser.”

  He flashes a dimpled grin. He’s so ridiculously in love with his wife, it’s nearly disgusting. He could be the poster child for man-who-falls-arse-over-elbow-for-a-woman. That’s something I can’t say for all the men in my family.

  “I’m like Grandfather, happy as a clam.”

  I furrow my brow. “How does anyone know clams are happy? Is there a study on clam happiness? We all assume they’re rays of sunshine, but how do we know?”

  He scratches his chin. “Good question.”

  “I bet they aren’t happy at all. I bet they feel nothing. Is that what happiness should feel like? Nothing?”

  He sighs. “Aren’t you philosophical today?”

  “Maybe. It happens every now and then.” I take a drink of the water. “But what can you do? Sometimes deep thoughts stray into my brain, and I can’t help it.”

  “Best to get them out of your head if you have a date tonight.”

  “Perhaps she likes thinkers,” I suggest.

  “So, who is she? Did you exchange numbers on the dock? Or did you, I don’t know, play charades with your appendages swinging in the breeze?”

  “Yes. I can do Morse code with my dick.”

  “Such a useful skill,” he deadpans.

  “We did it the old-fashioned way. Picked a spot to meet and a time.”

  He raises his chin. “And why her? Of all the ladies on all the tours you’ve ever flashed, you haven’t asked one out before. Not that you’ve told me about anyway.”

  I let my brain rewind to the petite brunette with the big sunglasses who ogled me unabashedly from the side of the boat. She was pretty, that much I could tell even from fifty feet away.

  But pretty alone isn’t enough. Pretty is a dime a dozen. I’ve dated women who aren’t pretty, but are witty, clever, and keep me on my toes. I like those traits just as much. Perhaps more. But I’m not opposed to pretty either.

  Obviously.

  “She was bold. She called out bravo. She said it louder than anyone ever has.”

  “So she knows how to read your Morse code.”

  “She’s welcome to read Morse code on me anytime. Come to think of it, she can even treat me like I’m fruit at the market.”

  Erik laughs. “In some countries, they don’t let you touch fruit at the market.”

  I gesture to my body, from my chest down to my legs. “In the fine country of Christian Land, it’s highly encouraged for the bold brunettes to touch the fruit.”

  “And on that note, I’m off to a meeting,” Erik says, clapping me on the back.

  The word meeting piques my interest. I stand up taller. “Who’s it with?”

  “Portfolio managers,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “We might strike up a partnership. I need to review a few more key details on the way over.”

  That sends a little thrill down my spine. “Yeah? What sort of deal? What sort of details?”

  Erik runs Grandfather’s financial firm and has since the old man retired ten years ago. For all intents and purposes, it’s his baby now, and he loves it, especially since his wife works with him.

  My brother narrows his eyes. “You can’t resist, can you?”

  “Resist what?”

  “You’re supposed to be retired. And look at you.” He mimes stirring a pot. “Trying to get your hands on the soup.”

  I scoff. “Please. I’m only curious. I’m not trying to eat your lunch.”

  “I would never think that. But I told you this would happen, Christian. I told you you’d hate retiring at age twenty-eight. And look—you’re proving my point only one year later. Twenty-nine and bored.”

  “I’m not bored. I’m curious. And asking about your meeting does not prove your point.” I swallow and glance at the hardwood floor then back up at him, my tone a bit sheepish. “But could you just humor me and tell me a tiny bit more about it?”

  Laughing, he grabs a stool at the island counter, parks himself on it, and proceeds to give me the download on the portfolio managers. My brain whirs, wheels turning and picking up speed as I rattle off ideas here and there, suggestions for what to say, how to negotiate.

  Erik grabs his phone and taps out notes, nodding. “Brilliant, brilliant,” he mutters.

  When he stands, he offers me his hand. “I hate that you’re so smart, but I’m glad you let me access that brain of yours.”

  “What can I say? I have a head for strategy and a body for sin.”

  He sneers. “I think my breakfast came back up.”

  Laughing, I show him the door. “I need to go say hi to Mum. Let me know how the meeting goes.”

  “Let me know how the date goes.”

  “I’ll preempt myself and tell you now—it went perfectly.”

  “Cocky bastard.” He leaves.

  A few minutes later, I shower, dress, and head to my mum’s flat by the harbor. We watch an episode of our favorite American TV show—the one about regular government employees who happen to possess extraordinary superpowers—then she asks me if I’ve been behaving at the docks.

  “Never.”

  “You’re going to get arrested for public indecency at some point, young man.”

  “Please. That only happens in America. Who’d arrest me in Europe?”

  Laughing, she practically shoves me out the door. “I’m not posting your bail.”

  “Of course you are. You’re the only one who has access to all my accounts.”

  When I leave, I head to the hip new lounge, Jane, more eager than I expected to be. Funny, how I spent all of thirty seconds with that woman this afternoon. Thirty seconds, fifty feet across the water, with a boatful of others watching on. But even so, I want to see her.

  Talk to her.

  Entertain her.

  From her voice, she sounded American, but not entirely. I think she might be French too.

  I don’t really care where she’s from though.

  I care where she’s going.

  Hopefully, home tonight with me.

  3

  Elise

  Dark jeans, pewter-gray ankle boots that
boost me up a critical three inches to a whopping five and a half feet, and a black blouse, the top button undone to show a hint of flesh. Well, I’m not a nun.

  I screw up the corner of my lips, peering at myself in the hotel mirror. I’m so . . . dark. “I look like a widow,” I mutter.

  “No. You look like a trendy, modern woman who likes black,” Veronica corrects as she slides chandelier earrings into her ears. She wrenches her gaze back, studying one earlobe. “Why am I wearing these? They might get stuck on a pillow.”

  “Or a chair cushion. Don’t rule out the possibility of rambunctious furniture sex.” I wink.

  “You’re right. Best to wear studs.”

  She bustles out of the bathroom, grabs her jewelry case from her suitcase, and finds, I presume, the studs she’s looking for. Meanwhile, I root around in my bag for another option. Locating a silky purple top, I tug it on. It slides off one shoulder. Just the right amount of sex appeal without being inappropriate.

  I hold out my arms wide, giving a half twirl. “How do I look now?”

  “Like an eggplant.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a witch.”

  “A very sexy eggplant. Please. It was a compliment.”

  I eye her getup, which can be described in one word—clingy. “And you look positively like a woman who’s going to enjoy the fuck out of her last night in town.”

  She grins widely. “Let’s hope I enjoy the fuck out of it.” She wiggles her hips. “Also, no need to wait up for me.”

  “As if I’d wait up for you.”

  I smooth a hand over my blouse as my stomach flips with nerves. “Am I really doing this?”

  “Yes.” She slides her foot into a red stiletto. “Aren’t you always telling me to enjoy life’s pleasures? To take a lover? To savor each day?”

  I tap my chin, smirking. “That does sound vaguely like me. But only in theory.”

  “It’s exactly like you,” she says adamantly as she slicks on lip gloss. “Now let’s put it into practice. You’ve been talking ‘seize the day’ ever since you finally came up for air after—”

  I wince.

  I don’t like hearing his name. I don’t want her to say his name. Once, not so long ago, his was the only name I ever wanted to hear. At night, in bed—all day long.

  Veronica quickly reroutes herself, like a GPS after a wrong turn. “And I love your carpe diem-isms. So, let’s go carpe the hell out of the night. Besides, why is it less crazy for me to see Lars than for you to see . . .” She trails off, waving her hand as if to say you-know-who.

  I point to her. “That. Right there. That’s why it’s less crazy. I don’t even know my pseudo-date’s name.”

  “Maybe it’s better that way,” she says softly, her words laced with meaning.

  Maybe she’s right. When you’ve had your heart shredded in a Cuisinart, then your sense of order in the universe sliced off at the knees with a serrated blade, maybe it is best to do things differently.

  Tonight will be different. Tonight doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Tonight can be a moment in time. A pleasure I take, not just one I talk about.

  We leave our room, head down the escalator, and through the brass revolving door that swooshes us onto the street. The doorman hails a taxi, and we slide inside.

  Veronica gives the driver two names. “I have no idea which one is closer, but I checked on my GPS, so I think it’s—”

  “I don’t need a GPS. I know exactly where both are. I will take you first,” the driver says. A few minutes later, he drops Veronica at a restaurant, and then he shoots me a grin.

  “Who needs GPS? I’ve lived here my whole life. There isn’t a sight in this city I can’t find.” He taps his forehead and smiles confidently at me in the rearview mirror.

  A few minutes later, the car jimmies up to the curb, and he smacks a meaty paw on the black leather seat. “See? No GPS, and here you are.”

  “Brilliant,” I say, and press the fare into his palm.

  On the street, I glance up at the sign.

  It’s a little bistro.

  “Huh,” I mumble, because it looked bigger when I checked it out on Yelp. But if I’ve learned anything from my decade in advertising, it’s that photos can beguile you.

  But it’s cute enough, and I head inside, my pulse skittering in excitement.

  My God, what if he’s a serial killer?

  Don’t leave with him, then, girl.

  What if he’s a lech?

  Walk away.

  What if he’s not even here?

  He’ll show.

  I do a clean sweep of the bistro and its ten tables and Lilliputian bar. There is no Skarsgård look-alike.

  Perhaps he’s in the little boys’ room.

  Or little lads’ room.

  Thinking of his English accent makes me smile, and I grab a seat at the bar and order a glass of white wine. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. You don’t ask a woman out while dressed in nothing and then ghost her.

  I glance around, then fiddle with a napkin. I need something to do.

  Do I stare at my phone as I wait? Or does that make me look too millennial? I don’t want to seem like I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed like an addict when he wanders in.

  The bartender slides over a glass, and I pay, then engage in small talk with him—the spring weather, how it’s been a warm season, and so on.

  That kills all of two minutes.

  Drumming my fingers on the bar, I straighten my shoulders and sip my wine.

  And I wait.

  And I wait.

  Screw not looking like a phone-obsessed junkie. I have a magazine on my cell phone, and I’m going to read a long, in-depth article on growth in the travel sector. There. I’ll be doing business, like I’m not even waiting for him.

  I’m keeping myself occupied, and if he shows, fine.

  I barely notice the men who stroll into the bistro as I read. Well, I do notice that none look like the man from the dock. I do catalog that none have the impish grin of the handstander.

  I’m keenly aware that it’s seven thirty-five and my wineglass is empty, and the sector is growing at 11 percent with the biggest opportunity being on the luxury side, and I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.

  No one stands me up.

  I leave, hail a cab, and return to the hotel where I promptly get acquainted with the way my evening was intended to unfold: a bubble bath, some music, and a novel.

  After I’ve finished soaking, I grab one of those plush hotel bathrobes I never use because I’m not a person who likes bathrobes—since nudity or clothes seem like vastly more reasonable choices—but tonight feels like a bathrobe kind of night.

  Bathrobes are for disappointment.

  It’s easier to drown your temporary sorrow while wearing terry cloth.

  Flopping down on the bed, I crack open my book again.

  A little while later the door creaks, then it slides open with a loud, demanding groan. Laughter spills into the room. A man with a soft lilt to his English accent says, “I’ll make your last night so worth it.”

  Worth it.

  Those words resonate with me.

  Trysts can make a night worthwhile. Can make a moment sing.

  I’m glad Veronica’s going to have a fabulous night.

  Even if it means my game plan has changed.

  They stumble around the corner, and I wave at Veronica and Lars. Her lipstick is smeared. I hold up a hand before she can even breathe a word. “I’ll go make myself scarce in the lobby bar.”

  “You’re a saint,” Lars says to me with a flirty smile. “A French saint. And she’s a French angel.”

  “I don’t think she’s an angel, Lars,” I say.

  “Even better.” He buries his face against her neck, smothering her skin in kisses.

  “You don’t mind?” Veronica’s breath catches. “Oh my.”

  That last comment was not meant for me.

  “Enjoy yourself. Seize the nigh
t.”

  “I will,” she says breathily. “Did you already seize yours?”

  “He didn’t show.”

  She knits her brow. “He didn’t?”

  “Trust me, I scanned all of Jane for my handstander,” I say, tugging on panties and leggings under the robe, then dipping into the bathroom to pull on a sweatshirt.

  When I pop out, Lars lifts his chin at me. “Did you go to Jane the bistro, or The Jane, the hip, trendy lounge bar that’s supposed to be popular with French ex-pats down on Kronerghaven?”

  I freeze. “Are you kidding me? There are two Janes?”

  Lars laughs, as he yanks Veronica impossibly closer. “It’s such an easy name to say and to spell. It was good for the tourists. But the newest one is The Jane.”

  Veronica gasps and jumps up and down. “You know he went to the other Jane. You could still go and find him.”

  Her excitement is adorable and thoroughly misplaced. I shake my head. “It’s eleven thirty. Have fun. Good night.”

  “Bonsoir,” Lars says, a dirty sound to his voice that makes it clear he intends to give Veronica a hefty dose of bonsoir.

  Grabbing my book, my glasses, and my phone, I head to the bar.

  I’ve no interest in drinking though, so I find an empty chair at the edge of the lobby bar and tuck my feet under my legs.

  I read till one in the morning.

  With no sign of Veronica, I head to the front desk. “Do you have any extra rooms tonight?”

  A ponytailed attendant smiles, taps the keyboard, then frowns. “We are all sold out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “So sorry. But yes, I’m sure.”

  I return to my chair. Surely, Veronica can’t go all night long.

  But at two thirty, it’s still me and my book.

  I yawn, barely able to stay awake anymore. My eyes flutter closed, and before I know it, I sit bolt upright at five thirty, greeted by the blazingly bright morning sun, and a massive crick in my neck, having spent the night curled up in an uncomfortable emerald green leather chair in the lobby of my hotel.

  But it was worth it, evidently, I learn when I return to the room, greeted by a contrite but glowing Veronica.