‘Don’t be, I should smoke less anyway.’ She waves the cigarette away with a carefree gesture. ‘Are you okay?’
She grips my arm with one hand and uses the other to scoop my chin up, so I face her. The sight of her face so close to mine quells my cough instantly as my stomach somersaults. I purse my lips. It’s all the permission she needs to lean in, her lips sliding over and parting my own.
She starts soft, lips glossy and primed for exploration. The more they learn, the more forceful they get. Pretty soon we’re gripping onto each other tightly, tongues battling for dominance. Her hands slide from my arms, down to my waist and then up under my blazer and along the seams of my top. I feel them lightly hover near my breasts, questioning whether to go for it. I lean further into her, my own hands sliding down her back. She gets the message.
She briefly traps my lip between her teeth, whimpering playfully as I reluctantly pull it back. I feel giddy – sick and dizzy from the wine, the shots, the kiss, and the reassurance that Iread this whole thing right. So giddy, in fact, that my stomach starts to rage, thrashing more aggressively the longer our lips lock.
She pushes me against the railing, hand sliding through my curls and gripping the back of my head as her tongue slides into my mouth. I can taste the cigarette on her tongue and the remnants of those terrible shots, the reminder triggering something in my own body. All too quickly, that trigger sets off alarm bells. The somersaults in my stomach no longer fun, but rather incredibly worrying.
This can’t be happening.
I push her back. She looks confused, but there’s no time to explain. There’s also no time to run or even twist to face off the balcony. I start to vomit. Not in dribbles or projectile, but somewhere in between – a large pink mass dumped all over her open-toed shoes. She looks on in horror. Or at least, I assume she does. There’s absolutely no way I can look her in the eye.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I yell out an apology as I wipe off my mouth and run inside without looking back.
I do a desperate scan for Noah and find him leaning against a wall talking to an unnecessarily giggly girl.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, eyes awash with concern.
‘No time. We’ve got to go.’ I grab his hand.
He asks no questions, just turns and issues the girl a polite goodbye before whisking me away and down out of the party. As we reach the street and head towards a good taxi spot, I finally start to breathe again.
‘What happened?’ he asks sternly. ‘Did she do something? Are you okay?’
He looks over my face carefully.
‘She did nothing wrong and it was definitely a date.’ I sigh. ‘Though there absolutely won’t be a second one.’
I went to Amsterdam and all I got was . . .
. . .a bright idea
Forty-eight hours, a train ride and a brand-new city later, and Noah is still laughing at the events of the party. He won’t stop. Every time I try to put it behind me, he remembers again and erupts into his stupid chuckle.
‘It’s not funny!’ I say yet again. ‘In fact, I’m never going to live this down.’
‘Oh, for sure.’ He bows his head in solidarity. ‘But that doesn’t mean it can’t be funny as well.’
I scowl back at him, eyebrows knotted so tightly that I can feel the skin dip in the centre of my forehead. I try to hold it in place, convey the message as long and as strongly as I can, and I do until a bike zips past me out of nowhere. I don’t have time to see it coming – it rushes by so quickly that I practically jump out of my skin. Before I know it, I’ve spun around, teetering on my heel as a second bike speeds directly towards me. I have no choice but to accept my fate. This is how I go. Face deep in the canal as a casualty of this city’s resolve to be eco-friendly.
At least, I would be done for if it wasn’t for Noah and his apparently lightning-fast instincts. His hand clasps tightly around my upper arm before I can feel it coming and he pulls me firmly into his chest. I hit it at full force, head smacking into his pecs so hard that the knock sounds loud and clear. But still he doesn’t recoil; he keeps me pressed against him, far too closely to ignore.
His eyes flick down towards me, watching me catch my breath while still captured in his arms. His warm breath tickles my faceas he murmurs something, smiling, but I can’t hear anything past the squeeze of his biceps and the smell of his cologne.
‘Bloody bikes,’ I tut, peeling myself off him. ‘I’m never going to get used to them.’
He takes the message, letting go, and we enter Vondelpark. ‘You don’t really need to get used to them. We’re only here for what? Three more days?’
Noah has ‘been to Amsterdam too many times with his boys’ and was only using it as a pit stop on the way to Germany. I, the person who crashed his trip two weeks ago, felt a little too fresh to the plan to object. So we’re doing four measly days here, which honestly might be for the best given the way these cyclists are rooting for my demise.
‘Which means we need to find you some candidates quickly,’ he says. ‘You’re over two weeks in and you’ve only been on two dates. You’re breaking rule number five.’
‘I can’t do thisagain! I’m mortified!’ I groan, slumping against a nearby tree. ‘And now I have to sit down with my laptop and divulge what a bad date I am to the entire world.’
I sink further and further until I’m sitting on the grass, completely shrouded in the tree’s looming shade. Noah joins me instantly.
‘You could leave it out?’
