Page 58 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
“Not a matter ofwant, Anna.” He drops his glance to his waistband and where her empty hand still hangs between them, because she’s forgotten about it– the hand, that is. “A matter of good decisions, andsnapsisn’t really a good decision-maker.”
“I don’t think I had much,” she says, shaking her head vehemently. “Katrine had most of it.”
“You didn’t match her?” he asks.
“I don’t think so?” Every shot. All the way.
“Maybe a bit more than a bit, though?”
She scrunches her nose. That sounds familiar. Her brain circles back to the right now, where it dawns on her that he’s rejecting her. Her stomach drops and she feels shame beginning to rise in her face.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says. “Look at me. This isn’t me saying ‘no’. Just ‘no for now’. You’re drunk?—”
“Tipsy,” she corrects.
He blows out aPffft, but lets it slide. “You’re wearing Eau de Aquavit, my friend. And I prefer my partners to know what’s going on.”
“I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.” Her smile feels filthy, but that’s because the images sprinting across her mind are exactly that.
“Aye.” He suddenly sweeps her up in his arms. “Sure you do. And if that’s the case then you’ll be able to describe it to me in tantalising detail tomorrow. And then we can see where we go from there.”
He’s already got her to the first step, having circumnavigated the discarded coat and hat in the middle of the hall floor.
She leans into his chest, which is warm and toasty and smells all lovely and him-y.
“Hmm,” she sighs into his top. “Can I keep this?” she asks, giving the fabric a tug.
“Sure,” he says, humouring her.
By magic, it seems to Anna, they’re in her room. He must have flown up the stairs, like the beautiful god that he is, and he’s gently tipping her into her bed.
She holds fast to the Henley, and chuckling, he slides out of it, leaving her snuggling into it like a blankie. She opens her eyes and sees his bare chest.
“Get in toooo.” She is on the brink of begging, her pride a distant speck on the horizon.
“Not tonight,skat.” He pulls the duvet over her.
“I wanted to know your foreign lands,” she mumbles then, and hears him ask, “You what?”, but sleep overtakes her and she’s out cold before she can explain her exploratory plans.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Her eyeballs are hurty. That’s all she can think. She hasn’t even used her eyes yet so how can they be hurting already?
Raising up on one elbow, Anna promptly drops down on the bed again. It’s not just her eyes. Her entire frontal lobe is being squeezed by gravity. Her mouth feels like something has scrubbed it dry. And then shat in it. Slowly,soslowly, she squints at the bedside table to see if there’s any water and is gobsmacked to see there is in fact a full glass. How very practical and forward-thinking of Yesterday Anna. Not that she has any recollection ofpouring it. Nor of digging out the blister pack of paracetamol that stands propped against it. It dawns on her that it was none of her doing. Yesterday Anna was her usual unpractical self ahead of asnaps-fuelled lunch. Which is disappointing. This was not her firstJulefrokostrodeo. She is old enough to know better, and yet here she is. She rolls onto her back with a pathetic moan. Why is she so weak? She blames Katrine. She always gets her into trouble. There will be a snippy text later. At the very least, she hopes Katrine’s feeling as grim as she is. That’s only fair, given it was Katrine’s idea.
Eventually, she emerges from her pit of despair, barely able to handle the bright sunlight in the snug. Squinting again– it’s the only way, given her sunglasses are downstairs– she almost misses the change on the jigsaw table. It’s now complete. Only, the missing piece isn’t there, the hole being filled instead by a perfectly made piece of card which “someone” has covered in gold Sharpie. She stares at it for longer than necessary– hiding the fact that getting this far has taken it out of her– before moving on, enticed by the scent of coffee. Such is her current need for a cupful that if anyone or anything gets in her way she might have a full-on breakdown.
“Well,go’ morgen’,” says Jamie, as she rounds the doorframe, now wrapped in the tartan throw from upstairs. He looks at her over the rim of the cup he’s holding and the amusement in his eyes does not help. She’s found her sunglasses, and they are firmly on her face.
“I think I’m dying, Jamie,” she says, dragging her sorry carcass towards the coffee pot. After a moment she points out, “You do not appear to be dispensing sympathy.”
“Apologies,” he says, still with little sympathy. “Sit down and I’ll get you a cup.” She waves his offer away. Apparently, she does have some pride left. Not a lot, but in the face of his amusement, she manages a show of indignation.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“Thanks for the paracetamol and the water,” she says, at a low grumble.
“Anytime.” His tone is kinder.
