Page 69 of What Happens in Amsterdam

I let his legs tangle with mine and stop short of telling him I’m not sure I can fall asleep with someone wrapped around me like this.

Until I do.

Eighteen

“Is that George?” I askon the train ride home, pointing to an inky scribble in Wouter’s notebook.

He’s been sorting through his conference notes. “Oh—just a little doodle. One of the speakers was a bit less engaging than the others.” He tilts the page toward me: a ballpoint sketch of George Costanza, the dog, watching TV with George Costanza, the character.

Though he does his best to hide a smile, I can tell he’s proud of it.

When we get back to the apartment early Monday afternoon, we’re met with a surprise: a pipe started leaking in the bathroom while we were gone.

We stare at the puddle of water, Wouter silent for a good ten seconds. I can see his brain trying to work out a solution from behind his eyes. “Shit,” he says quietly, scrubbing a hand along his stubble. “I was going to go into work, but…”

“Hey.” I place a reassuring hand on his arm. “I’ll handle it.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

I’m struck with a flashback of suggesting this same thing only a few weeks ago when that cabinet handle broke off and he immediately told me not to worry about it. Because it’s not that he’s suddenly eager to give me a task.

It’s that he trusts me. This apartment means the world to him, and he trusts me with it.

“Of course. I’m ahead on my Dutch homework, so I have the time.”

“Thank you. I’ll send you the info for the plumber I used last time.” Wouter visibly exhales, then heads to the utility closet to shut off the water supply. When he returns, he’s sorting through the mail he picked up on our way in. “Some good news, though.” He grins as he presents a document to me, all in Dutch. “The title to the building. It’s officially been transferred.”

“Why do I feel like we should frame it?” I say, grabbing the title from him and scanning over it, even though I can only read some of it. “Right there, over the couch? Or maybe we just slap it on the bathroom mirror so we can see it every time we brush our teeth?”

Wouter glances down at my mouth, and a second stretches longer than it should. There are no rules for any of this, how you’re supposed to act after you hooked up with your fake husband–slash–ex-boyfriend and former forbidden love. His smile softens into a look of uncertainty, and my heart drums against my rib cage in anticipation.

“Should we…talk about this?” he asks as he steps forward.

“I think we’ve done a lot of talking lately.” I close the remaining space between us, wrap my arms around his neck. “Maybe we could just have fun, without worrying about the rest of it? Keep it…casual.”

He pauses for a moment, seeming stuck in thought, but then brushes his lips against mine. “I can do that,” he says, and then kisses me harder.

It’s not long before he has me pushed up against the wall, mouth hot on my neck, my hands tugging at his hair. Even after last night, I’m still hungry for him. The way he touched me with tender desperation, unstitched me with those gorgeous filthy words…

With all my willpower, I pat his chest. “I should probably call that plumber.” I’m going to guess there isn’t a single sentence in either English or Dutch more likely to kill the mood.

“I know, but—” He groans and gives me one last kiss, and I pretend to swat him away. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you later tonight. I’ll pick up George from Roos on my way home.”

“And then we can see who he missed the most,” I call after him.

I meant what I said: I don’t want to overanalyze what we are now, especially with my sister’s visit and the impending faux-wedding. We can be casual; after all, I have plenty of experience with it. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it with him, but I’m now certain it’s the only option.

We can’t have anything else—not when this is already going to end in divorce.

The plumber doesn’t answer when I phone, so I leave a message and proceed to search online for someone else. Just as I’m about to make another call, a message from an unknown number pops up on my phone.

Hello Dani. This is Anneke, the mother of Wouter. I have an appointment in Amsterdam today and I would like to stop by the apartment to pick up something in storage, but I don’t have a key. Are you there this afternoon?

I fumble out a text letting her know that yes, I’m home, and that I’m happy to let her in—but that we have a leaky pipe and the apartment is in a slight state of disarray.

There’s no reply, so I subject myself to the frustration of tryingto find a plumber available today, because my basic Dutch—asking someone,Do you like to eat bread?—is not exactly useful in this scenario. I manage to talk to a couple people who can take a look at the end of the week, and I’m about to start googling some DIY fixes when the doorbell rings.

“Hoi, Anneke,” I say, realizing I’d forgotten about her during my frantic search. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t know if you’d gotten my text, or…”

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