Page 22 of Winter Glam in Amsterdam

“Come on now,” I whisper and shift my weight from left to right as I wait for the elevator and I go even more crazy when it stops at every damn floor, even though nobody gets on.

And finally, when the doors open in the lobby, I push my way through all the people waiting for the elevator, too impatient to step aside, my elbows ramming several rib cages as they rush in and almost sweep me right back into it, when I’m stopped by a broad chest, face first.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and when I look up, my cheeks fill with heat. “Tanner?”

"Where are you running off to?" he asks, lips stretched in an amused grin, but I have no time for pleasantries. For once, I don't even tense as his warm voice washes over me.

"Snow," is all I answer excitedly before I rush past him with a spring in my step.

“Snow?”

I hear his shoes clicking against the marble floor as he follows me and I shake my head. He’s a bit like a dog, following along curiously just like he did when I went to the sex museum. But it doesn’t matter, because as soon as I’ve made my way through the revolving door, and a wall of freezing cold hits me in the face, I break into the brightest smile.

"Snow," I point out again and just stay frozen to the spot for a minute, feeling the cold flakes melting on my cheek, tickling my skin as they graze it.

"Snow," he agrees, his voice full of wonder.

"I'm going to take a walk," I tell him, my cheeks already hurting from smiling so much.

And without a word, there’s a silent understanding between us as the snow crunches under his footsteps as he comes along.

The city is all but deserted as we walk through the dark streets, only illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlamps, some fairy lights hanging over shopping streets and in trees, and the slivers of light coming from lit windows without curtains.

Maybe it's because anyone out and about would gravitate towards the Red Light District, since that’s obviously where the party happens.

But we walk right into the opposite direction, along the canals, looking at the beautiful house fronts, watching the snowfall as it drapes the whole city in soft quiet and the most beautiful glittering glaze.

Tanner is walking right beside me, but we don’t talk, both of us savoring the serenity in silence.

Until he begins to softly hum a song I know but can’t put my finger on, in an octave so deep it makes the hair on my neck stand up, a shiver running down my spine.

At the same time, the warmth of his melody washes over me, like walking into a room with a fire running in the fireplace, hot cocoa waiting for you.

"Which song is it?" I ask him softly, not wanting to disturb the moment but way too curious to keep the question to myself.

"Winter Wonderland," he whispers with an apologetic glance. "Sorry, I can stop."

"No," I whisper back, a blush creeping into my cheeks as I request, “Please don’t.”

It's a nice walk. The city looks so different at night, when the streets are empty and illuminations cast houses in such different lights. I could keep on walking these streets forever. But when I lift my finger to wipe a strand of my hair away from my face, I realize that they’re trembling with coldness.

"Maybe we should head back," Tanner says softly and reaches for my hand, tugging it into his pocket along with his own, his thumb drawing a pattern onto the back of my hand in an attempt to warm it up.

“Maybe,” I admit, lips pursed in a pout. I’m not quite ready to go inside yet.

Neither of us is moving, the silence around us suddenly incredibly loud. It feels like we’re in a bubble. Only him and me and the pull between us.

"My mom used to sing us to sleep with that song whenever it snowed," he explains, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then the next morning, she'd pull the wooden sleigh from the basement and take us outside, walk with us to a hill nearby and go sledding with us." A sad smile tugs at his lips and I give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"She sounds like a great mom," I tell him just as softly and he begins to walk, my hand still firmly in his.

"She was." He clears his throat, and I watch him subtly as he tries to blink away the emotions in his eyes and schools his face.

"You must miss her." I know I might be poking at memories he’d rather not share, but I just have a feeling in my gut that he wants to talk about her.

"I do," he says and pulls his scarf a little tighter around his face with his free hand. "It never goes away, you know. Sometimes it feels like both of them are right there and I catch myself talking to them. Some days I just wake up, and I miss them so fiercely." He grinds his jaw then runs his hand over his face. "I’m sorry, I don't want to bore you, didn’t want to bring the mood down."

"You're not," I assure him and give his hand another squeeze. But the moment is gone.

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