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 as we glide away from the dock.

“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.

2CHRISTIAN

Raising my arms to the sky, I give my muscles one final stretch. Really, you can’t stretch enough. I plan to be fit and strapping well into my eighties. That’s a long way off, but it’s always good to prepare for the future.

I turn around, pleased to have knocked out another accomplishment in the ad hoc Welcome to Spring at Fifty-Five Degrees Latitude North club.

Admittedly, it’s a bit hammy of us. But it was my turn to flash the canal tourists on behalf of our noble exhibitionist goals, which means my mates will be paying for drinks tomorrow night. Not that I need anyone to pay, but that’s the fun of it. I’m well ahead of most of them, since I have friends from university who chicken out when it comes to our little game of “streaking” on the docks for the tour boats.

I never chicken out, no matter the weather. We usually only do it in spring. As many of my fellow club members like to remind me, you’d have to be off your rocker to get naked outside in a Denmark winter. I’ve been off my rocker a few times. Maybe I like free beer. Or maybe I like surprising other people.

I stroll up the hilly yard toward my house, passing my brother, Erik, who stands close to the porch. “Did you scare them all away? Admit it—they cringed in terror, scary movie–style.”

I slash an arm through the air. “Whole boatload of them. Tears, shrieks of horror. Wailing.”

He cringes dramatically.

“Toss me a towel, will you? Or do you want to continue to admire your more fit and handsome younger brother?”

Erik scoffs and throws the towel over the porch railing, away from me.

I shrug. “I’ll just go inside, and you can check out my arse.”

“You can count on me never ever checking out your arse.”

I grab the handle on the sliding-glass door and head inside to one of my homes. You can’t beat a home on the water. But then, a flat in Paris is hard for me to say no to as well. Good thing I get to have both.

I grab the pair of boxer briefs I left on the couch and tug them on as Erik follows me inside.

“Seriously. How did it go?”