Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,53

but my jeans are damp, and the denim is horribly cold on my skin.

Jack hugs me. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

I give a lopsided smile. “I don’t want to.”

He cups my face and kisses my nose in an affectionate way that makes my heart clench. “We can do other things,” he says finally. “This isn’t the end.”

“Isn’t it?” I say, staring at him.

He shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Nope. Not at all.”

I smile. We set off together, but even as we clear the park and cross the road, the snow becomes so heavy that it’s hard to see.

I blink the snow from my eyelashes. “Shall we grab a taxi?”

“No need.” He tugs me past the bulk of the Rijksmuseum and down to the canal, which has become a steely grey colour in the eerie light. He drops my hand and vanishes into a cheerfully painted kiosk, returning with strips of paper which he brandishes at me. “We can catch something better than a taxi to get back to the hotel,” he says, as I lean closer to hear him over the wind.

“What?” I ask.

“A boat.” He gestures at the canal. “The hop-on and hop-off boats go up and down here all the time. They go right past the hotel, but we can stay on and see more of Amsterdam if you want.”

More time with Jack. I do a mental fist-punch. “That sounds good,” I say fervently and then shiver. “At the least, it’ll be warmer.”

“One more stop,” he says, glancing up the road. A few moments later we’re stepping into a bakery. The shop is warm and smells delicious, with shelves full of brightly decorated cakes and savoury pastries.

“Pick something,” Jack instructs. “We can take our own food on the boat, so we’ll have a picnic. The lady in the boat kiosk says it should be nice and romantic. They’ll light the candles because the afternoon is so gloomy.”

“Romantic, eh?”

He steadfastly looks forward. He can’t hide the flush on his cheeks, however, and I repress a smile as I look at the menu board.

I choose a slice of pizza and then stand deliberating over the display of cakes. “Which do you fancy?” Jack asks from beside me.

“I can’t make my mind up. Are you having one too?” He looks slightly dubious, and I nudge him. “I can’t eat cake if you’re not doing it too. I’m not Marie Antoinette.”

He rolls his eyes. “The phrase is, ‘Let them eat brioche,’ and there’s actually no record of her ever saying it.”

“Bet she would have said it if she’d been stuck between a piece of carrot cake or Dutch apple pie.”

“We’ll have both,” Jack says promptly to the woman behind the counter. “And a latte and a hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

She smiles at him and bustles off to get the drinks. I nudge him. “Who’s the hot chocolate for, Jack?” I ask in a sing-song voice.

He smiles, shaking his head. “Shut up. It was lovely. I’d forgotten how nice it was. Your mum always used to make one for me when I stopped over.”

“She loves you,” I say lightly.

He looks pleased, and I nestle into his side, smelling the cold fresh air on his skin.

When we have the ingredients for our picnic, he pulls me out of the shop. It’s still snowing heavily, and he looks at his watch. “The boat will be here in five minutes. Let’s shelter over there.” He tugs me over to a huge building with an overhanging roof that offers relief from the snow. There are already some people sheltering there—a middle-aged couple and a group of young blokes whose bleary eyes say they’ve been drinking heavily.

We edge in next to the couple, and Jack pulls me against him, wrapping his arms around me. I nestle in, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. I think I could while away hours like this.

“Ooh, it’s snowing heavily now,” the woman exclaims. She’s redhaired and has an open, warm smile which she directs at the group of blokes sheltering in their jeans and shirtsleeves. “Would you like a poncho?” she says brightly to one of the men, while rummaging in her bag. “They gave us ponchos when we bought our tickets, and you look so cold, love.” She offers him an acid-yellow plastic packet.

He looks at it as if she’s holding a sack of dog shit. “Not fucking likely,” he says sharply.

Her face immediately falls, and I glare at the rude fucker. “Wanker,”