Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
T he next six days of our tour went exactly to plan. No tourists got lost. None of the women broke down into uncontrollable tears. Nobody had to be rescued from the gutter after a pissy night on the booze.
Roman continued to be Mr. Perfect.
But there was one disappointing fact . . . I didn’t do anything that added to my list of firsts.
And that made that damn ticking clock boom louder and louder.
We arrived in Amsterdam at two o’clock in the afternoon. It was a beautiful city—much calmer than some of the bustling metropolises I visited each month.
This was my thirty-first time here and just about every visit, I’d said to myself that I should hire a bike and ride along the numerous canals that crisscrossed Amsterdam.
Today was that day.
The last time I’d ridden a bike was about fifteen years ago, and it had not been pretty. I was about as uncoordinated as a crab on skates .
Today would probably be the same, but I didn’t care. Tick. Tick. Tick.
At the hostel, after all the tourists were sorted, I turned to Roman. “Hey. What are you up to now?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Well . . .” I wasn’t sure if I wanted Roman to come with me. On the one hand, I was likely to make an absolute fool of myself. On the other, it would be another first we could share together.
Besides, if I did accidentally crash my bike into a canal, at least Roman would be there to rescue me. With that sorted, I said, “I’m going for a bike ride. Do you want to join me?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. But . . .” He beamed. “Absolutely. Count me in.”
My heart skipped a beat. His energy was both cute and contagious, and after a commitment to meet in the lobby in ten minutes, we vanished into our rooms.
I thought I’d been quick, but when I stepped out of the elevator, Roman had beaten me back down to reception.
My first sight of him had me rethinking my plan. He looked like Mr. Sporty, only way hotter. He was wearing shorts. And just like all the clothing he wore, he managed to make them every bit as sexy as a runway model, yet as sporty as a professional athlete. Mr. Perfect strikes again.
Meanwhile, I’d put on a loose T-shirt, a bra that I thought would handle my boobs should I deviate off-road, and three-quarter-length leggings that unfortunately emphasized my nonexistent ass.
What was it about him? It didn’t matter what he wore, what time of the day or night, what length his beard was—this man could do no wrong. Maybe I was living a real-life Shallow Hal, and I’d put him on such a pedestal that I could no longer see the real Roman. Maybe . . . he wasn’t any more special than any other guy.
That had to be it. I’d been wearing fucking rose-colored glasses. Yes. That made perfect sense. He didn’t treat me as special. He treated everyone as special. I’d just blown that attention way out of proportion.
Riding on that wave, I strode across the lobby like I owned the place and smacked his smoking-hot ass.
He jumped and spun around. His jaw dropped. His cheeky grin confirmed he’d never expected me to do that.
I’d never expected me to do that. But damn, it felt good. “You ready?” My pulse was racing a million miles an hour.
He rubbed his hands together in a move I’d come to recognize as his symbol of his excitement. “Sure am.”
Our bikes were outside. They were nothing fancy. Amsterdam was about as flat as any city could be, so gears were not necessary for a leisurely ride through the canal streets.
While I fiddled around, putting my bag into the basket and psyching myself into actually throwing my leg over the seat, Roman was already riding rings around me.
I managed to get onto the seat and my left foot onto the pedal, but I couldn’t convince my right foot to leave the ground. Visions of me toppling sideways made it impossible.
“Come on, Dais. Pedal, pedal—you can do it.”
With a squeal, I pushed off the ground, the handlebars wobbled, and just when I thought I was going to go nose-first into a tulip garden, I was free.
Grinning like a crazy woman, I rode alongside Roman on the footpath, dodging tourists and locals alike. We crossed a few roads and soon we’d made it to Vondelpark. The park was the biggest in Amsterdam and attracted over ten million visitors each year. I’d walked through it many times, but this was the first time on a bike .
With the wind in my hair and the sun on my skin, I couldn’t help but smile. But at the same time, I cursed myself for not doing this sooner.
A dedicated bike path circumnavigated the entire forty-seven hectares, and the two of us ambled along it like we had all the time in the world.
The grass was a luscious shade of green, the abundant trees swayed in the breeze, ducks swam in the numerous ponds, and people strolled along, laughing and smiling. It was peaceful and fun and sharing it with Roman made it all the more special.
He brings out the best in me.
It was such a surprise to admit that. I’d been living independently for years, but Roman made me a better person. He made me feel content. I guessed that was the whole point of a friend. A real friend.
“Race you to that bench seat.” He leaned into the handlebars. “Go.”
He took off, but I remained Driving Miss Daisy. I sang, “La de da, de, dar,” cruising side to side as I moseyed up the tree-lined avenue. Roman was halfway there before he turned around and came back. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m just enjoying this.”
“It’s pretty cool, huh?”
I nodded. “Yeah.” It was way better than cool. This was living. It was such a corny statement, yet it meant so much. I’d spent over two and a half years traveling around Europe and yet I hadn’t really explored. It was like people who live in the same town their whole lives but never go to the local beach.
I wished I could turn back time, do it all again.
When Roman started to ride his bike around me, over and over, I wished he’d been my driver right from the start.
“Fancy a little more fun?” He wiggled his brows .
I squinted at him, curious. “Like what?”
“I’ll show you. Come on. Follow me.”
Continuing along the bike path, we exited the park and cruised up the sidewalk along the main street, dodging pedestrians and tram cars. He was ahead of me, and I was just as distracted by his sexy butt as I was trying not to get my front tire stuck in the tracks in the road. “Do you even know where you’re going?” I yelled out to him.
“Sort of. Me and a few guys went there last month.”
At a bridge that crossed over one of the bigger canals, he turned right, and we passed hundreds of push-bikes tied up to the wrought-iron railings. This mode of transport was one of the main attractions in Amsterdam.
Everybody seemed to be having a nice relaxing time, even if they were on their way to work. No matter what the weather, I’d rather ride a bike to work than travel the London tube any day.
Half a mile from the bridge, we stopped outside a tiny shop with a few high-top tables outside. Groups of young people were seated around them. All were smoking.
Oh shit! When I saw where Roman was taking me, I just about crashed my bike into a street lantern.
I wanted to ride on past, and would have, had Roman not stopped right in front of me. When he caught my bike, I couldn’t decide if it was to help me or if he was worried that I really would keep on riding.
“What are you doing, Roman?”
He flashed a cheeky grin and wriggled his brows. “Taking you somewhere new. Grab your things.” He nodded at my basket.
Clutching onto my bag, Roman took my bike from me, and while he chained it up, I fixated on the entrance to Stinky Skunk House. Everywhere was a mishmash of color and texture. Smoke billowed from the doorway, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the inside was on fire, but everyone was too stoned to notice.
People were everywhere. Male. Female. Young. Old. Hippie-looking and professional-looking. Stinky Skunk House didn’t seem to have a particular demographic.
There were hundreds of marijuana resellers all over Amsterdam, so I was curious why he’d chosen this one. It was well away from the main tourist drag, but its dingy appearance didn’t appeal to me one bit.
I held my bag to my chest. How the hell had I let this happen?
We’d been having such a lovely time.
Rubbing his hands as he sidled up next to me, Roman’s excitement was a polar opposite to my level of anxiety.
“What do you think?” He nodded at the entrance.
“I think this is nuts.”
“It’ll be fun.”
Shaking my head, I stared at the billowing smoke drifting up from the group of young adults at the front table. I had hundreds of memories of my parents and their pot parties and had seen enough fun times turn to shit when mind-enhancing drugs were involved.
Hell, I probably wouldn’t have been conceived if it wasn’t for marijuana.
“Come on, Dais.” He touched his hand to my elbow. “What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know.” I glared at him like he had a joint in his eye. “What if I act weird?”
“You always act weird.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So, what if you do? It’s just you and me. Nobody will be looking at you. Trust me.”
“Trust you. You’re the one who got me into sleeping with strange men. ”
“They didn’t seem strange at the time.”
I thumped him on the arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Come on. You’re doing this.” He draped his arm over my shoulder, giving me an up close and personal whiff of his delightful cologne. How was it that he still smelled so good after two hours on a push-bike?
Lurching forward, I considered locking my feet but knowing me, I’d trip over my ankles and face plant. Just as we reached the door, a group of four men spilled out. All were younger than me. All looked and sounded like they were on another planet.
Without pause, Roman edged me past them and over the threshold, and my eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting. But the second they did, it was sensory overload. Nothing like I expected. Although I hadn’t really considered what the inside of a marijuana tea shop would look like.
Behind the front counter was a woman who had more metal in her face than our tour bus had in its engine. Her tattoos covered the majority of her flesh and the solid stain inching up her neck looked like she’d played tonsil hockey with a squid and lost.
On our left was a freezer topped to the rim with choc-chip ice cream. Just choc-chip.
Weird, but okay.
Following Roman, he led me to the counter and the woman didn’t even glance at us. She seemed deep in concentration as she sprinkled tiny balls of green onto an ancient-looking weighing scale that would be more suited to a spice market in Turkey.
Roman guided my attention to the menu board behind the counter and my jaw dropped. There were twelve different types of marijuana to pick from. Having grown up around the drug, I thought I knew everything. But I had no idea it had varieties.
He must’ve seen my confusion because he leaned in. “You can choose between uppers or downers, or flavored or plain. What do you want?”
I glared at him like he’d just suggested I tear off my clothes and streak through the teahouse. “How should I know?”
I turned back to the board. The item at the top of the list was Snakes Alive. It was listed as ninety percent upper and ten percent downer. In contrast, the one at the bottom of the list called Purple Possum, was eighty percent downer.
I leaned in to Roman, and despite the potent dope cloud engulfing us, I could still smell his fabulous cologne. “Why would anyone want a downer?”
He shrugged. “Some people like to zone out.”
“Ahhh.” I nodded as if understanding. But for the life of me, I had absolutely zero comprehension of why anyone would want to take a drug that zoned you out. The ceiling and walls were draped in a multitude of Turkish-style rugs, giving the room an eclectic bohemian theme.
Each corner had couples or groups of people sitting around tables topped with bongs or joints that were all adding to the growing smoke cloud. Just as many people were giggling as there were staring blankly at nothing.
“I’m going to have the Dancing Terminator.” Roman’s announcement had me spinning to the board. His choice was an apple-flavored leaf that promised seventy percent upper and thirty percent downer. “What about you?”
I shrugged. “I’ll have the same.”
“Oh, no you don’t. If you don’t like it, you’ll blame me.”
I rolled my eyes with such exaggeration it hurt. “If I don’t like what I chose I’ll blame you anyway. ”
“That’s true. But pick a different one. Then we can swap and share.”
Scanning the board again, I read each one like I was deciding on a dish at one of Europe’s finest restaurants.
He pointed at the board. “You like cherries. What about Popping my Cherry? Seems very appropriate, don’t you think?”
I shot him a glance that could melt ice then scanned the board for Popping my Cherry. It was eighty percent upper and promised a wild cherry flavor. Hmmm, yummy.
“All right then. Go on.”