I sigh audibly. Nice start to the trip – I barely get three hours of sleep, I forget my favorite sweater on the plane, and I almost killed a little old lady. What if she’d fallen onto the carousel? She would have been a goner for sure.
Yet... it gets worse. I spot him from the corner of my eye. He’s tall, as gorgeous as I remember, and has the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on his face.
“Tell me you didn’t see that,” I beg.
He laughs, and it’s just like the laugh I love to hear when we video chat, but even better — more real. “That was hilarious. You almost sent her on a ride on the carousel.”
I cover my face with my hands. I can’t look at him. He’s too fucking beautiful. He’s wearing the most stylish black jacket, a red scarf, dark jeans, and stylish brown shoes. Some things don’t meet expectation when you finally see them for real, but not him. I don’t want him to look at me — I know I probably look like hell.
He closes the distance between us. “I’m so glad to see you, Gabriella.” He smells like the beach. I want to breathe him in forever. He wraps his large arms around me. “No rush,” he says. “Let your suitcase roll around for a while.”
Oh, God… how can a hug feel so good? Heat spreads from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I literally melt into him. I don’t ever want to let go.
It may very well be the longest hug ever known to man — it’s definitely a contender forThe Guinness World Records. People probably think we’re long lost lovers, or one of us has survived a terminal illness against all odds, or perhaps they think he’s the separated-at-birth brother I’ve never met until today.
But all good things end. “I really need to go pee.” Traitorous bladder, how dare you ruin our moment.
He reluctantly lets me go. “You go, and I’ll get your suitcase.”
“It’s the super colorful one with the stripes,” I tell him. “My name is on the tag.”
He smiles. “I know… I saw you almost destroy a tiny elderly woman trying to get at it.”
“Shut up.”
I run to the washroom, and make a beeline for the toilets but there’s a line. Ugh… after what seems forever, I finally get to empty my tiny bladder. When I go to wash my hands, my fears are confirmed — I look awful; bed head and raccoon eyes. I grab some Kleenex from my bag and attempt to clean my eyes.
Eli is waiting for me, standing next to my suitcase. I take a moment to fully appreciate the view — he is a specimen of a man; tall and lean. He carries himself just right — he doesn’t have a superior stance nor does he slouch. And eyes like his are why poems were invented. And those lips… I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to feel them on mine.
“I look awful,” I tell him. “I’m usually… prettier than this.”Really, I am… sometimes, when I do my hair and stuff.
He laughs again. Well, I might not be pretty, but at least I’m amusing him. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I think he means it. I blush like an imbecile, of course. He might have striking eyes, but I don’t think they work quite right.
“You must be tired,” he says.
“A little,” I admit. “But I can’t go to sleep yet, or my internal clock will be completely messed up.”
“I get that,” he says in agreement. “We need to have lots of fun and keep you awake.
Fun. I like the sound of that.
“What did you have in mind?”
“A stroll around Nyhavn, and lunch at a bistro. There’s this little bookstore I like. And maybe a bike ride, and then, dinner at my place.
All I hear is ‘dinner at my place’. “Sounds like a plan,” I say cheerfully.
He turns on his heel and pulls my suitcase. “Let’s go then.”
I follow him eagerly, anticipating the unknown.
We take the tube to Nyhavn. When we get out of the metro, the sun beams down on us, yet it’s still quite chilly. The streets are busy and full of energy, and lovely too, just like so many other Europeans cities. The amazing colorful architecture never ceases to amaze me, such attention to detail. My artist’s eye appreciates every single aspect of it. The cobblestone streets are gorgeous but a little difficult to navigate with my suitcase, yet Eli is doing a fine job. He’s moving pretty fast, and I struggle to keep up with him while still taking it all in; the buildings and boats in the canal.
After a short walk, we finally arrive at a hotel right in the middle of Nyhavn. “We’ll keep your suitcase here for the day,” he tells me. “I know the owner. He’s a good friend.”
I help him trek my suitcase over the few steps and we enter a modern, sparse and very white space; contemporary ultra-modern chairs, vintage framed posters, a rustic wood coffee table, a rack of flyers of attractions. Red cushions add a pop of color, and tucked in the corner, are a bunch of suitcases and duffel bags. It seems like a resting stop for travelers’ belongings.
“Hey Eli,” the man at the counter calls out. “You made it.”
