Page 41 of I Knew You Were Trouble

‘Years of experience,’ he replies, that smile firmly in place. It’s sexy and I look away.

‘So, which way?’ I ask – an obvious question, but I’m distracting myself, ignoring that one look from Willem can turn my insides molten.

He jerks his head towards the right, and we head off. There are too many obstacles in this part of the city to walk side by side – people, bikes, tables and chairs outside restaurants, the occasional tram – so mostly, I trail behind him. Every so often, he glances over his shoulder.

‘Still here,’ I say after the tenth time, and he nods. God, I hope he didn’t catch me staring at his arse. Some men – like Jon – have a flat arse, but Willem’s fills out his jeans perfectly.

Eventually, he stops outside a corner bar called Bar Feijoa. ‘I thought we could have a drink here before dinner.’

I squint into the darkness. The bar is quiet at the moment, but it seems like the sort of place that ramps up at night. The sort of place I used to frequent in my late-teens and early-twenties – usually with Margot. There was a time when I did shots off the bar and kissed strangers and danced until I was a sweaty mess.

Then I discovered other ways to have fun, moreadultways.

Then you got boring, Kate.

The thought comes out of nowhere, an emotional slap to the face, and I swallow hard then step inside the bar, Willem close behind me. The bartender looks up from the cutting board where he’s slicing limes and grins.

‘Willem,’ he says, firing off a greeting in Dutch. There seems to be a chastising tone to his words, which is confirmed when Willem switches to English and apologises.

‘Yeah, I know. Sorry, but I’ve been busy with work. This is Kate.’

‘Hello,’ I say.

He reaches across the bar, presumably to shake my hand, and I place mine in his. Then he presses his lips to the back of my hand, eyeing me through his lashes.

‘Okay, okay,’ says Willem. ‘I didn’t bring her here for that.’

The bartender releases my hand, then raises both of his. ‘Can’t hurt to try,’ he says, and he and Willem exchange a loaded look.

‘And doyouhave a name?’ I ask him.

‘I do, m’lady,’ he says, a wide grin splitting his face. ‘I’m Kwame.’

‘Nice to meet you, Kwame. So, what’s your specialty?’ I ask.

‘You like cocktails?’

‘I do, but it’s been a while since I’ve had one.’

‘What do you like?’

It’s an innocent question, but my traitorous mind instantly conjures a less-than-innocent reply.I like tall, broad-shouldered, brooding Dutchmen with intense blue eyes and sardonic smiles.

‘Uh…’

He gives me a funny look. ‘Fruity drinks? Sour? Spicy?’

‘Whatever you’d like,’ I say, feeling foolish. It’s obvious my thoughts were written all over my face. I need to stop entertaining salacious ideas about Willem.

‘I’ll surprise you,’ says Kwame. ‘And what are you having, my man?’

‘Grolsch IPA.’

Kwame looks at me, rolling his eyes at Willem’s simple order as if we’re in cahoots, and I relax a little. I climb onto a barstool as he gets to work, and Willem slides onto the one next to me.

‘So, you haven’t ridden a bike for a while, and you haven’t had a cocktail for a while…’ he says, his low, rumbling voice reverberating through me. ‘Whathaveyou been doing, Kate?’

My heads snaps in his direction and he’s watching me closely, his eyes questioning, teasing. Only, this isn’t being teased. This is being judged, as if I am somehow lesser than my younger self simply because my priorities have changed.

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