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.
This man wears nudity well, even in this unusual position.
“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 as we glide away from the dock.
“You’re insane,” I whisper.
“This is the wild thing to do. Not a boat ride.”
