Page 8 of Winter Glam in Amsterdam

Finally, we enter the hotel, immediately enveloped by warmth, immediately feeling my cheeks heat up at the sudden change in temperature.

“This is—” I take a deep breath, slowly turning around trying to take everything in. The lobby is pompous—but in a good way. I didn’t even realize that’s possible. There’s furniture that looks like the interior designers took it straight out of a room in Versailles, paired with modern paintings that make you question whether it’s actually supposed to be art or an experiment, but, surprisingly, it works amazingly together. “Wow.”

Then my eyes are caught on a couch. Even with the sophisticated flair, it looks comfortable as hell.

“I’m calling it. If my room is half as comfortable as these couches look, you might not see much of me while we’re here.”

"That could become pretty boring after a few days," Luca points out, and I purse my lips in a pout.

“Don’t be so logical.”

"Also, you wanted to take your mind off things," he adds a lot more quietly. "I don’t think that’s going to work if you spend your whole day doing nothing."

I roll my eyes. I hate it when he’s right. Even more when he knows he is, just like now.

“Nobody likes a gloater,” I whisper back at him, but it only makes him grin.

"Now, how about you plant your ass on that couch over there? We'll leave the bags with you for a moment while we check you in."

Before I can open my mouth for an answer, the three of them are ushering me towards the couch I’d been eyeing, and once I'm seated there, all bets are off.

"I'm never getting up again," I let them know, letting my head fall back to look at the marble ceiling. "I live here now. Bring me a blanket and I'm good."

"Maybe we can change your mind once you actually see the rooms." I lift my head, directing an unimpressed look at my brother.

Mom watches our exchange, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips, while Dad is wandering off, his curious gaze firmly locked on one of the artworks on the lobby walls. It’s pretty abstract, all I can see from here are paint splashes distributed over a canvas with beige background, but knowing him, he’s already determined what it’s supposed to show and what feelings the artist intended to convey with it.

I bet it’s anger. That’s his usual go-to when it comes to artistic interpretations.

With a sigh, I lean my head back again as the three of them make their way over to the reception, chatting happily, the sound quickly blending into the monotone hum of the busy hotel lobby. Combined with this couch that’s peak comfort, I feel my consciousness pulled closer to sleep, my eyelids drooping and a yawn hidden behind my scarf.

Suddenly, a voice that I can only compare to a deep rumble of thunder starts speaking and the couch dips right next to me.

“May I sit here or would you like me to invite you to dinner first?”

My eyes fly open, and I startle. That… voice. I’ve never heard a deep voice like this before. It feels like he’s sending soundwaves through my body, only with his voice, so deep my brain can barely comprehend he’s actually speaking words and not part of a music track. "What the fuck?"

"Oh wow. Not the reaction I usually get," the same deep voice answers, and I actually physically pull away. It’s sending goosebumps all over my damned body and before I know it, I blurt out the stupidest thing that rushes through my brain.

"You sound like Avi Kaplan and a didgeridoo had a child," I ask before I finally turn my head to look at him, my breath catching in my throat when I meet his curious stare.

Holy fucking shit.

Of course, I know the Walker brothers. Well, I guess "know" is a bit of a stretch, but I watched Luca’s charity match back then, and I might have done a bit of additional Googling after he mentioned their names. So, it’s fair to say I knew what they looked like. Handsome as hell, dark hair, chiseled jaws, piercing eyes and sex appeal all but written on their foreheads. Thanks to Luca taking me along to a red carpet or two, not really something that fazes me.

But holy shit, I did not imagine any of them to sound like this. Consider me fazed.

"I don't think anyone's ever given that comparison," he says, amusement playing at his lips as he taps a finger against them, probably thinking of all the times he’s been called booktok’s dream guy. "I'll take it, though."

I can’t help but stare at him. Does he have a voice distorter hidden somewhere?

"Did that make you speechless?" he asks, and I blink, trying to shake off the strange enchantment his voice cast on me.

"No.” I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. He’s got no idea that I’m part of this little get together here, does he? “I'm just kind of trying to figure out why you're talking to me."

"Oof." He grabs his heart dramatically and sighs, pretending he's the actor of his family—which I know for a fact he's not, but it’s interesting to see how that talent evaded him. "What a harsh rejection."

"Rejection of what?" I ask, confused. Then it hits me. I was so focused on his voice I almost forgot what he even said. “Oh.”

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