“Year Two project by Daisy Barrett. What she didn’t know about crocodiles wasn’t worth knowing,” I say gloomily.
He laughs, and I become aware of how close we’re standing. I can feel the warmth of his body and smell his sweet, minty breath. I draw in a sharp breath. His fingers go still where they’re tying the scarf, and our gazes catch and hold. The world drops away, leaving just us.
“Arlo,” he says huskily. “What—”
“Alright, you two art lovers. Ready for the museum?”
My brother’s cheery voice makes me jump, and Jack’s arms fall away. His disappointed expression vanishes so quickly, I’m sure I imagined it.
My brother shoots us a narrow-eyed look. “What are you two doing?”
My fingers clench on the ends of Jack’s scarf. I’d like to wind it around Tom’s neck and pull hard. He interrupted a very interesting moment, and I’m sure death by cashmere is a fair payback.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.
“I hope you enjoy your pub crawl as much as I’ll enjoy the exhibit,” I say sourly.
He bursts into laughter. “That was like a car crash in slow motion. Good luck, because now Bee is under the erroneous impression that you are a massive culture-head, like Jack here, and will want to visit every single piece of art in Amsterdam.” He smiles evilly. “Meanwhile, the rest of us will go to a lot of lovely, warm bars and while away the day sampling the best alcohol that the city has to offer. But do give my love to Rembrandt.”
“Isn’t he dead?” I ask in a poisonous tone. “Perhaps you’d like to pass the message on to him personally. It can certainly be arranged.”
“Not likely. You two arty-fartys can go and view culture to your heart’s content. I’ll raise a pint glass to you poor fuckers.”
“What’s up?” Bee’s voice comes from behind my brother. I’m gratified when Tom jumps as if Bee has zapped him with an electrical charge.
He spins around and offers a smile. “Oh, nothing. Just saying how sad I am that I’ve had to give Arlo my ticket.”
“I can give it back,” I say sweetly. “After all, I’d hate to deprive you.”
“No, no,” he says quickly as Jack covers a snort with a cough. “You must have it, Arlo, with you being such an art lover.”
“Oh, really?” Bee asks in a concerned voice. “Are you sure, Tom?”
“Quite sure,” he says bravely. “I’m willing to give it up so my brother can have his heart’s desire.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you. You being such an arty-farty and all that bollocks,” Bee says sweetly. “But then you can drown your sorrow in your massive pint.”
Jack and I break into laughter as my brother groans. “Sorry,” he says.
Bee laughs. “As if I want you with me. The last time we went to the Tate, you thought the fire-escape instructions were an art instalment, Tom.”
“It looked like modern art to me,” he says crossly as we all laugh.
Bee shakes his head. “You and that group of tourists who you managed to convince. Somewhere in the world there’s a photo album full of pictures of the artwork of the famous London Borough of Southwark’s health and safety policy.”
Tom wraps his arms around Bee and kisses him affectionately. His face is soft and warm with love as he hugs his smaller boyfriend. He’s such a giant softy with him.
Bee grins up at him, his face bright and vivid. “I’m taking Jack and Arlo with me. They’ll be far better and much more art-appreciating company than you.”
“I’m not sure about either of those categories for Arlo,” Tom says.
I stick my middle finger up at my brother, but he grins as Freddy and Diana walk up.
Everyone is dressed in jeans and jumpers and bundled up in big coats because it’s seriously cold. I look up at the grey sky and, again, wonder about the chances for snow. It would be magic to see it in this city. I turn to find Jack watching me. His eyes are dark, and he’s wearing an unfamiliar expression, but when he catches my gaze he only gives me a quick smile.
The group exchange hugs and then we separate, promising to meet in a bar near the Rijksmuseum in a few hours. Tom, Freddy, and Diana wander away for their assignation with a few bars, and I fall into step next to Bee and Jack. They’re talking happily and comfortably about some gallery in Paris they visited together.
“Do you two do this often?” I ask.
I gasp as Jack suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me sharply against him. “Ouch!” I spread my hands on his chest to get my balance. I take a half second to register the warmth and hardness beneath his jacket before gasping, “What the hell?”
He tips his chin toward something behind me. “You were about to fall down the steps to the ground floor flat of that house.”
“Why don’t the tour guides warn people that this place is mortally dangerous?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s only dangerous for someone who doesn’t pay attention to what’s directly in front of his feet.”
“I do,” I protest. He stares at me with his eyebrow raised, and I fold. “Well, not always,” I admit. “My brain is full of thinky thoughts, and I just don’t notice things.”
“You’re a dreamer,” he says.
He’s got that strange look in his eyes again, and I finally identify one of the emotions there. But I can’t be right. Because it seems like yearning.
“Tom says you’ve got the spatial awareness of a dodgem car,” Bee says.
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve still got my hands on Jack’s chest, and I’ve been staring into his eyes. Bee raises one amused eyebrow, and we hasten to separate.
“He’s not wrong,” I say quickly.
“Come on,” Bee says. “We need to pick up speed, because we’ve got to be at the museum at eleven or we’ll miss our slot.”
He sets off at a pace suitable for an army route march, and I follow him after shooting a look at Jack, who seems to be determinedly looking everywhere than at me.
Amsterdam seems full of peril as we walk the narrow streets. Hazards come at me from everywhere—bikes and cars and the openings to buildings’ basements. Jack has to rescue me a couple more times by steering me out of oncoming traffic and stopping me from stumbling into the path of yet another bike. The cyclist swerves to avoid me but then smiles at me and waves cheerfully before riding on with a cheerful tinkle of her bell. The Dutch seem to be wonderfully friendly and calm people. I haven’t seen one display of temper, even when I trip over a flower pot and nearly take a header into a passing cyclist’s front wheel.
“Sorry,” I say as Bee tries not to laugh. “Didn’t see that one. The house owner cunningly concealed the entrance to their home with that empty flower pot. Bloody dangerous. I should give them a piece of my mind.”
“Have you got enough to spare?” Jack says, brushing brick dust off my coat sleeve caused by me flinging my arm out to prevent imminent death. His mouth quirks.
I nudge him. “You’re so funny.”
He laughs and sets me back. “There. Maybe we should tie cot-bed bumpers to you just in case.”