Page 63 of I Knew You Were Trouble

I look away, wishing I could fan myself without giving anything away. It’s suddenly very hot in here.

‘How was the rest of your week?’ I ask instead.

‘Busy. I’ve been back to see my client in Bruges – I only returned this morning.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realise. You could have cancelled. It can be exhausting travelling for work.’

He shrugs again. ‘I’m used to it. It’s only three hours by train.’

‘So, your clients, are they companies, individuals…?’

‘Both – and everything in between. We’ve worked with multi-national companies, government agencies, celebrities…’

‘Wowser. Anyone I’d know?’ I ask, leaning close. I’m not really one to follow celebrity news, but it is rather intriguing.

‘Probably, but I wouldn’t be a very good security specialist if I told you now, would I?’

I lean back, laughing. ‘No, I suppose not.’ We exchange smiles. ‘You obviously enjoy what you do,’ I say.

‘Mostly,’ he replies without further explanation. ‘And you? You enjoy your work?’

I nod, breaking into an involuntary grin. ‘I do. Mum says I was destined to become a project manager from when I was little. I was always the organiser – my classmates, my friends, even Mum and Dad. I ran the family calendar from when I was seven.’

Willem smiles.

‘And in primary school, I’d finish my work early and my teachers would give me administrative tasks. They probably weren’t supposed to do that, but it kept me engaged.’

‘And that’s what you studied at university?’

‘Yes. I finished my degree, then went straight on to earn a master’s in project and program management and innovation.’

I don’t mention that I was awarded an academic scholarship, nor that my parents secured a bursary to help fund my studies. I also lived at home to save money and had a part-time job in a local gift shop. All these factors contributed to me developing a strong work ethic and an appreciation of fiscal responsibility. I never took my education for granted and I was more likely to be found in the library on a Friday night than at the pub.

My so-called fiancé once told me how much he admired this about me – how hard I’ve had to work and what I’ve achieved. Ironic, really, when hehasn’tworked hard and he hasn’t achieved anything. Unless spending his inheritance and conning innocent women counts.

‘Anyway,’ I say, continuing before I give in to thoughts of Jon, ‘I’d say I’m most fulfilled when I’ve got oversight of the big picture and see how all the pieces fit together. I’m one of those strange people who genuinely loves a dynamic spreadsheet,’ I add with a dash of self-deprecation. Though from what I’ve seen of Willem so far, I’m not the only one who gravitates towards order.

‘What’s not to love?’ he asks, playing along with mock-seriousness.

‘Right? Dynamic spreadsheets can beverysexy.’

Oh my god, I did not say that.

‘I’m not sure I’ve heard of that sexual inclination before, not even in Amsterdam. And we’re very progressive here.’

His mouth twitches, making me wish I could rewind to the moment right before I referred to project management software as ‘sexy’.

Although, it’s better than sayinghe’ssexy, which heis– and which I’ve been trying to ignore since he showed up wearing worn-in jeans and a white, loose-weaved dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

I take a mistimed sip of beer, and pro tip from me: it’s impossible to swallow and gasp at the same time. I cough and splutter, banging on my chest. Eventually, the beer goes down the right way, but not before the embarrassment kicks in.

‘Sorry,’ I say, peering at him, then immediately looking away. Concerned Willem may be the sexiest Willem yet.

‘Oh.’ The way he says it draws my gaze. ‘We’ve had a gate change.’ He’s looking up at the departure board. ‘And it’s down the other end of the concourse. We should go.’

He stands, downing half his beer in one go, but I won’t bother matching him. Even the little I’ve had has gone to my head and he’s got several stone on me. I take one more sip – it really is delicious – then stand and gather my belongings.

‘And I’ll take this,’ he says, indicating my luggage.

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