Wanderlust

Lars suffers from an affliction common to many men in Denmark. He’s a cut above average in the looks department. Let the record reflect, the Danes make the best-looking men.

“Of course. I’m going to talk to him when the tour ends.”

“Excellent. I love your planning skills.”

The boat slides under another bridge then motors through a more residential area, passing homes on the water, and private docks every few feet. My eyes hungrily eat up the view. My current hometown of Paris is my love, but I could get used to weekends in Copenhagen. It’s a delightful mix of old and new, like a Swiss alpine town mated with a futuristic sky-rise city.

As I gaze at the sun-soaked homes, I imagine lazy afternoons drinking strong coffee on the deck, reading delicious tales under the rays. That seems like a recipe for happiness for the rest of my days.

I want to feel that way. Happy. It’s been so damn elusive for the last few years, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as if I grasp it again, so I’m no longer teetering on the edge of grief and shame.

But that’s why I’m here, to move past that terrible duet.

I try valiantly to simply enjoy everything in front of me: the buildings, the water, the view.

As we round the bend in the canal, I blink at the view.

Holy hell, the unexpected view.

Nearby is a private dock.

On that dock is a man.

He’s performing a downward-facing dog, and his rear is facing us.

What a spectacular ass.

It’s not covered in sweatpants or basketball shorts.

It’s au naturel, as finely sculpted as the statue of David.

He’s a dog all right.

I sit up.

I practically stand. I lean on the edge of the boat, agog. I won’t even pretend I’m not looking. I’m ogling.

The Japanese friends whisper and point. The couple shifts closer to get a better look. The college girls titter and laugh.

We slide along on the calm water, and now we’re fifty feet away from a sight way better than the Little Mermaid statue, more magnificent than the royal palace.

He bends forward, pressing his palms into the wood, lifting his legs, and flipping them upside down.

Full. Frontal. Birthday suit.

He’s a tall drink of man, and I’m so very thirsty.

“Look,” I whisper to Veronica, though of course she’s already engaged in the fine art of gawking. “Did you know the Mad Naked Handstander of Copenhagen was on the tour?”

She sighs contentedly. “I am so glad you forced me to go to the buffet.” She parks her chin in her hands, watching the tall upside-down creature.

“My favorite part of the buffet is dessert,” I say, as my eyes gobble him up.

It’s an angle you don’t see men in that often.

I suspect most people don’t look good like this when naked and in such an unusual position.

But this man wears nudity well.

“I enjoyed the rubies and emeralds in Rosenborg Castle, but I like these crown jewels even better,” I say.

And hey, perhaps I’m perving, but I’m an equal-opportunity spectator at this private dock show. I don’t merely peer at the centerpiece of his physique, resting majestically against the grooves of his abs. My eyes take a most happy stroll up and down his carved body, from the planes of his stomach, to his strong thighs, to his arms ripped with muscles. His face is hard to read at 180 degrees, but I see the shape of his cheekbones, carved by angels.

Then, he moves. He walks on his hands. Back and forth.

Like he’s performing.

Showing off his most unique skill set.

I chuckle louder.

Then louder still when he holds himself up on one hand only, waving to us.

“What a show-off,” Veronica says.

Lars clears his throat. “And sometimes, we see the unexpected sights of Copenhagen.”

I do what any curious onlooker might do. I grab my phone, and snap.

Snap.

Snap.

The man stands, takes a bow, and waves.

My chest heats up. The temperature in me flirts with mercury levels. He’s a stunner. My God, he’s like Skarsgård, from this distance.

And, because I believe in speaking my mind, I cup my hand over my mouth, and shout, “Bravo. All of it.”

He doffs an imaginary top hat and takes a bow. “My pleasure.” His voice booms across the water, his accent a British one.

Sparks unexpectedly race down my chest. That accent is delicious. “Oh no. The pleasure is truly all mine.”

His lips curve up in a smile. A wickedly handsome one. “Then meet me tonight at Jane!”

Veronica nudges me. “That’s a club. Say yes. Say it now.” Her voice is marked with urgency,

“You’re insane,” I whisper.

“This is the wild thing to do. Not a boat ride.”

Is she crazy?

As the boat motors on, the idea seems both intoxicating and dangerous. Stupid, maybe, too. For a second, I imagine asking Lars to stop the boat. Skarsgård would jump in the water and dolphin his way over to me, parking his hands on the edge of the boat, and flashing a gleaming smile, his hair wet, his face covered in droplets of water.

Oh hell, I want to say yes to the naked man.

He barks at me once again, shouting a street name that starts with a K, since every word here has a K in it, and ends with something like haven. “I’ll be there at seven.”

I swallow. Is he mad? Am I? Or am I doing what I’ve told myself I should do for some time now? Seize the day.

I cup my hand over the side of my mouth, and call out, “Perhaps I’ll see you at seven.”

Once one of the most beautiful views ever fades from sight, Veronica arches a well-groomed eyebrow. “You’re going, right?”

A prickle of nerves skates down my spine. “I am?”

“Did I detect a question mark?”

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous to have drinks with a man you don’t know?”

Shaking her head, she rises, flicks her chestnut brown hair off her shoulders, and strides purposefully to the front of the boat. Once Lars finishes a tale about the Danish navy and their warships, he lowers his shades, drops his mic, and cocks his head to the side.

Veronica says something to him I can’t hear.

But his eyes tell me everything. He’s said more than “perhaps.”

As she saunters back to me, a determined look in her eyes, she’s daring me to go. She’s chosen her own adventure for tonight.

Flopping down in the seat, she declares, “You better get your ass to Jane on whatever street that was.” She pokes my shoulder. “You have a date, and so do I.”

Why is it that last nights in foreign countries make you do crazy things?

I mean, think crazy things.

Clearly, I’m not actually going out with him.

I might have a bath in the marble tub at the hotel, sip a glass of champagne, and lose myself in a new book, the story of a young couple who travel to Rome and get lost and found.

“It’s insane.”

Veronica grabs my arm, her eyes imploring. “You’re not going to his house. That would be insane. You’re going to a bar. That’s safe.”

But is it? Is it safe for my heart?

Once I ask the question, though, I know the answer.

It’s only one night. There’s nothing safer.

And that’s why there’s nothing fate can do to stop me. I’m making this choice.

PART-TIME LOVER releases on June 4 on all retailers!

Next up is COME AS YOU ARE, releasing April 16! Here’s a brief excerpt….