Page 1 of I Knew You Were Trouble

1

KATE

I’ve just pulled on my oversizedGilmore GirlsT-shirt – a relic from my teens and my go-to for maximum comfort – when the buzzer to my flat bleats.

It’s either a delivery driver who’s got the wrong flat or Mrs Winterbottom, who lives below me, has locked herself out again. If it’s the latter, that makes twice this week. I’ve told her I’m happy to take her rubbish out, but she insists that ninety is the new eighty and she’s entirely capable of doing it herself. Only, she needs to remember her keys.

I cross the lounge and press the intercom button. ‘Hello?’

‘Hallo, is this Kate Whitaker?’ asks a deep, husky, slightly accented voice.

‘Yes,’ I reply instinctually. Maybe I did order something and I’ve forgotten.

‘My name is Willem de Vries,’ he says, and I pinpoint the accent – Dutch. Though it’s unclear why a delivery driver is introducing himself.

‘Okay. Do you have a parcel for me? You can leave it by the door and I’ll come down to collect it later,’ I reply.

‘Er… No, it’s not a par— I have something to tell you – something important. Can I please come inside?’

Intriguing. But no matter how much he’s piqued my curiosity, I’m a single woman who lives alone. I’m also trouser-less. I am not inviting a stranger into my flat, no matter how sexy his voice is.

‘What’s this concerning?’ I ask, but there’s no reply. ‘Bugger,’ I mutter – the intercom must have timed out. I wait, poised to answer if Willem de Vries buzzes again. He does.

‘Hallo?’

‘Hi,’ I reply. ‘Can you tell me what this is about? Please,’ I add, remembering my manners.

But rather than answering, he sighs so loudly I can hear him over the intercom. ‘It’simportant, Kate. Please, I need to speak to you. I understand if you don’t want me to come inside, but— Look, I passed a pub on the corner. How about meeting me there?’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Oh, uh…’

I hadn’t expected to be going anywhere. It’s been an intense week at work, and I’d planned on a lazy Friday night on the sofa, watching something mindless and eating the rest of the curry I ordered in last night but didn’t finish.

Icouldjust tell Willem de Vries to sod off. If it’s that important, why won’t he tell me over the intercom?

Then again, he has me intrigued and I suppose that a crowded pub, one where I’m known by the staff and some of the local patrons, will offer some security.

‘Fine, I’ll be there in five minutes,’ I say. ‘Actually, make it ten,’ I add, giving me an extra few minutes to make myself presentable –andto conduct a swift internet search on Mr de Vries.

Before he can respond, I release the button on the intercom and start googling ‘Willem de Vries con man’.

* * *

As expected for 6p.m. on a Friday, the pub is teeming – mostly with locals, and I say hello to the ones I know. There are also a handful of tourists, who stand out with their daypacks and weary, slightly sunburnt faces.

I scan the dark interior, sending a wave to Dave behind the bar, who smiles back, but don’t see anyone who might be Willem de Vries. All the men are here with at least one other person.

‘Hallo, Kate.’

I turn towards the voice, coming face to (formidable) chest with Willem, even though I’m five-eight. I take half a step back, craning my neck to meet his eyes.

Thor – the man looks like Thor. Well, the Hemsworth’s version – and from the third film, after those signature golden locks had been shorn off. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, intense blue eyes under sexily arched dark brows, lips the colour of the last lip stain I bought (grossly unfair when men’s lips are naturally that colour), and a five o’clock shadow.And he’s built like a god, I note as my eyes drift to his biceps.

It’s ridiculous how handsome he is – Willem, that is, not Hemsworth – although he is too, I suppose.

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