Page 78 of Sinful Temptations

“Of course not.” He shoved the bits and pieces into the paper bag and grabbed my hand.

Before I knew it, we were back on our bikes, riding through the canaled streets of Amsterdam with him leading the way. Folks were everywhere. On bikes. On foot. On trams. On the boats that floated along the canals. Young tourists with telltale accents giggled and spoke way too loudly. Elderly locals with their designer dogs held hands as they strolled along.

We reached Vondelpark again, and after ten minutes riding along the busy bikeway circumnavigating the gardens, Roman turned onto a narrow path. The farther we went, the more the silence engulfed us. It was hard to believe we were in the middle of Amsterdam.

As if he’d known it was there, Roman rode right up to an empty bench by the lake and stopped. The setting was absolutely perfect. The sun was shining. The lake was shimmering. And a cute family of ducks was swimming back and forth. Mid-city parks didn’t get much better than this.

A giant tree above us provided enough foliage to ensure my pale skin wouldn’t be glowing red by the time we got back on our bikes.

We sat, and I shared my gaze between the serene ducks scooting across the water and Roman lighting up the first joint. He held it toward me.

“How do you know it’s mine?”

“I don’t.”

I tugged my lip through my teeth. “You go first.”

His face grew serious. “Okay.” He drew on the joint, creating a glow of embers at the end, and after a plume of smoke left his lips, he handed the joint to me.

I took it from him and eyeballed the innocent-looking stick while he lit up his own.

Poised with the joint in his hand, he turned to me. “Ready?”

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

He waited until I put the joint to my lips before he did the same. I sucked the smoke into my mouth and coughed up a lung as I exhaled. “Bloody hell.” I coughed some more. “It’s like eating the mower catcher.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.” He motioned for me to try again.

I did. Putting the joint to my lips, I inhaled again. The second attempt wasn’t as brutal and I was surprised that the cherry flavor was not only present, but it was also pleasant.

Without his prompting, I inhaled on the joint again. He did the same.

So, here we are—an Aussie chick who is about to get booted out of Europe and an Italian man who is hotter than hot, smoking a joint while watching the ducks swim around the pretty lake in the middle of Amsterdam.

If I’d tried to picture this six months ago, it would never have happened. Hell, if I’d tried any time in my life, I would never have reached this scenario.

A tiny bell tinkled in my ear. Thinking a fairy had landed on my shoulder, I glanced that way. The bell tinkled again, and I frowned, unable to establish the source of the sound. “Do you hear that?”

Roman blew out a cloud of smoke.

A giggle burst from my throat. “You’re a dragon.”

“Huh?”

The giggles took over, and I laughed until tears streamed down my face.

“What?” His eyes wedged closer together. “What’s so funny, Daisy Chayne?”

“Ohhh.” I slapped his chest. “Why’d you have to ruin it?”

“What?”

“Calling me Daisy Chayne.”

“Oh. I thought that was your name.”

I cocked my head. “Der. It is.”

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