Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,21

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.”

Bee bursts into laughter and strides on.

After another half hour of dodging traffic, we stand in front of the Rijksmuseum. It’s an oddly charming building. Built in a very gothic style with red and white bricks, it looks rather like a gingerbread castle. It’s also jam-packed with a queue spooling out of it and musicians playing a lively tune to the long line of people waiting outside.

“Is this it?” I say slowly. “It’s huge.”

Bee’s and Jack’s grins are wide and happy. “Yep,” Jack says. “I love it here.”

“I can see why,” I say faintly. “It’s massive. It obviously contains many, many pieces of art.”

“Miles of them,” Jack says slowly and deliberately, a wicked smile lighting his dark eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, his hair windswept, and his beauty makes my breath catch. Happy and carefree for a second, he’s lovely to see.

“Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”

It turns out I was right. The place is enormous, and Jack and Bee are hellbent on looking at everything. It’s not the sort of looking that I like to do, where I quickly glance at everything in one room and then rush on to the next. No. Jack and Bee like to take their time. And a few other people’s time too.

We’re currently standing looking at a chair. Yes, you heard me right. A chair. It’s pretty and covered in lovely embroidery, but it’s still a rest for someone’s bum. I watch Jack as he points out something to Bee. His dark hair has fallen over his forehead, and his face wears my favourite sweet smile. I sigh. I’d take looking at Jack Cooper over a chair, any day.

Jack suddenly glances up, and I immediately divert my gaze to the chair. No, it’s still boring.

“What do you think, Arlo?” Bee asks earnestly.

I bite my lip and shift my parka to my other arm. It’s bloody boiling in here. “It’s very nice,” I say. They both stare at me in disappointment, and I frantically scramble for words. “I think the embroidery is very reminiscent of the Sampson period.”

Jack looks nonplussed. “When was that?”

I shrug casually. “Oh, eighteenth century.”

“I’ve never heard of Sampson,” Bee muses, pulling out his guidebook.

“He’s not well known,” I say sagely, which is true unless you were in 7B’s art and craft lesson where Mr Sampson was the teacher and once spent a tortuous hour trying to teach me to cross-stitch.

Jack eyes me with dawning suspicion, and I wave my hand regally. “Shall we proceed?” I say rather grandly. Jack snorts but follows obediently, tugging Bee along as he continues to leaf through his guide book.

Jack

We spend a few hours wandering the museum, but my attention is definitely not where it should be. Rather than looking at the artwork and the gorgeous antique furniture, I’m busy paying attention to Arlo. The way he moves, the sight of his arse in those faded jeans, and the width of his shoulders in his oversized black jumper. His hair is a mess, and a flush lies over his beaky nose, making his grey eyes glow.

As we stand in line to go into the Rembrandt exhibition, his face is full of the amusement that seems to cling