Chapter 10
Jen was worried things might be awkward now, but she needn’t have been. She’d ducked into the cabin to change into her top and shoes while he’d packed things away and switched off the fairy lights, and when she returned, they were back to how they’d been before. He said she could keep the shorts and politely didn’t mention her garish clothes, but laughed when she explained this was not her usual attire, that Lydia had pranked her with them.
“I already like your ex-sister,” he said. Something about that warmed her even more to him.
She followed him down the gangplank, wishing this had been the way she’d boarded instead of the humiliating way it had actually panned out. He stepped onto the cobbles and stopped, bringing her to a close stop too. A light breeze wafted his aftershave at her again. Pine, lemon and sage. How had she not placed that immediately? She was off her game, clearly. Jen was exceedingly proud of her nose, it was what had helped her build and refine the flavours of her beer. Jim Arbuthnot for example, her brewing rival at the county shows, his olfactory skills were shot, given away by his inability to tell when his shirt needed changing. And while he was able to follow recipes for beer, he didn’t have the imagination and flavour appreciation to know which new combinations might work together.
“Jen?” Yakob asked, touching her upper arm lightly.
“Sorry?”
“You suddenly seemed miles away.”
“Oh, sorry, I was thinking about the way you smell.” His eyes widened. Oh crap, that had sounded stalkery and not a little deranged. She clarified herself quickly. “I mean, I was identifying your aftershave.” Was that weird? Would he think she was a nutjob? Probably waaay too late for that already and yes, that was an incredulous look he was giving her.
“Really? You can name it just from sniffing it?” He wasn’t weirded out. He was intrigued, as if it was her party trick.
“No, that would suggest I had way too much time on my hands. I mean, I can smell pine, lemon and sage.”
“Huh,” he shrugged. He seemed slightly impressed, whilst also a little disappointed. “You might be right. I don’t know. I just like it.”
“So do I.” It was out of her mouth before the filter kicked in. Her blush of embarrassment was instantaneous. “I mean, it’s a good blend.” This was not going as smoothly as she would have hoped for. She bit her lips together, stopping herself from uttering another daft word, while he looked at her as if kindly stifling a belly laugh.
With the Tupperware box of rice and phone bits tucked in one hand, Yakob gesticulated with the other for her to lead on along the cobbled quay.
“Tell me more about your brewing,” he said, walking without any haste, at her side. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“You have? Why?” Oh, the times she’d had her own beer processes mansplained back to her. Or maybe he was about to tease her again. She braced herself.
“Because I am intrigued, Jen.” He said it so earnestly that she couldn’t help but drop her defences. “I am excited about your excitement about it.”
“Okaay,” she said, unsure. Perhaps he was playing the long-game on taking the piss.
“Don’t you find when someone is as enthusiastic about something as you clearly are about beer, that it becomes infectious?”
“No.” Jen shook her head, immediately thinking of Robert. “I can honestly say other people do not share my enthusiasm. They’ll drink the beer, but they don’t see it as anything other than a pass-time, when actually it’s in my veins. I don’t eat anything without thinking what beer would go best with it.”
The glow of a near street lamp showed his smile as it widened. Perhaps it wasn’t odd that he’d been thinking about it, if he liked beer too. How many times had she critiqued a beer without ever being able to tell the brewer?
“Don’t stop,” he encouraged, extending his hand to her and nodding her on, on their route, “go on.” It was almost as if he knew she needed to say these things, to declare them. Taking his hand was both easy and reassuring.
“So, I have a small range of beers that I already make; IPAs, Golden Ales, a Porter, a Stout and a Barley Wine and I planned to make a seasonal beer for Christmas.” She didn’t mention the wedding beer. TMI.
“We do this in Denmark, the Christmas beer,” he said, “it is extremely popular. Every brewery has one. This was my Morfar’s favourite brewing time.”
Jen knew he was really listening to her. He wasn’t pushing – he waited very patiently in fact, but the encouragement was implicit.
“I’ve got a new fruit beer lined up for the next County Show too.”
“Consider entering the national brewing competitions Jen, just to start building up a profile.”
Oh. She hadn’t got her head around Nationals, but he appeared sure. And his interest in the entire brewing thing was clearly genuine. It made her think.
“Yakob, you asked me earlier if you thought I’d missed out on things. Do you feel you’ve missed out?”
He looked at her surprised. “Why do you think I’ve missed out?”
“Only that, when you talked about brewing with your Morfar earlier, I sensed you loved the creativity and it’s freedom, but you say you work in corporate finance and those things don’t really marry up in my head. So I’m guessing you made a choice somewhere along the line and while you can let the creativity out on the barge, I wonder whether you might have turned your back on a creative calling?”
He stumbled slightly and Jen saw his expression was somewhat stunned. “No, no, it wasn’t anything like that. My parents saw I was good at maths and encouraged me down that path.” The light way he said it, made Jen suspect their “encouragement” hadn’t been so welcome.
“Didn’t you want to decide for yourself?” she asked carefully, thinking how his grandfather had allowed him that freedom when they had home-brewed together.
His smile was slightly tight. If she hadn’t been looking at his face so much in the last few hours, she might have missed it.
“I think my nostalgia has given you the wrong impression, Jen. My family is intense but wonderful. I love them dearly. And my job is good, I enjoy it very much. Much as you might not believe it,” he said with a genuine smile, “numbers and business can be creative too.”
“I suppose so,” Jen conceded. Heaven knew she had to be creative with her inco pad marketing ideas, and the crampons were going to need some act of god. “Crafting is still different though. Like you said earlier, it’s pure.” Jen knew without a shadow of a doubt that what she shared with her dad, and he with his Morfar, was about connections, with each other, but primarily with the materials and your own skills.
“I don’t know Jen,” he said slowly, shaking his head, “I’ve heard about your lists and I’d put money on your spreadsheets being a work of art.” There, he was back to the teasing and she knew he was deflecting. Considering how kind he’d been in light of her various embarrassments this evening, she left the subject, and also because she was caught in the conflict of having to agree with him about her spreadsheets. They were a particular point of pride. Instead she was content with simply looking down the streets as they passed by on their walk and asking Yakob what the buildings were on the opposite side of the water. In the times between, the low murmur of the continuing canal traffic was accompaniment enough, as they made their way, still hand in hand. She liked the feel of it, her hand warm in his. She wasn’t inclined to let it go. Knowing this had her off kilter; it felt right, but she knew there was something wrong about it too. Moreover, she didn’t know how this would play out when they reached their destination and the trepidation was brewing in her, causing a tightness in her chest.
They crossed a pedestrian bridge that looked like yacht sails. Her hotel lay just a little way along.
“It’s been a magical evening, Yakob,” she said, feeling torn as they reached the boat. Their time was running out and while she knew it had to, it filled her with a sense of loss. “One I won’t forge
t. But you know, I don’t even know your name?”
“Yule,” he supplied. “Yakob Yule.” He lightly shook the hand he was holding, making a joke of it. Neither of them felt like laughing. The banter of earlier suddenly felt too superficial for this moment. His eyes fell to their hands and he appeared to be deliberating something.
“Jen Attison,” she gave him in exchange. Never had her own name sounded sadder. The skin of his fingers stroked the full length of hers as he released them. Her hand felt instantly cold. He glanced away, appearing discomfited. Was he feeling the same physical deprivation she was?
Spurred by something, Yakob took a step closer. “It has been a pleasure, Jen,” he said, his voice low, the deep gravelly timbre resonating in her belly. He handed her the Tupperware box. Their fingers touched and she looked up, suddenly aware that she really didn’t want this to be over yet, whatever this was.
His eyes searched her face, flicking slowly between her eyes, then down to her mouth and back. She knew her eyes had done the same. The pure want in his face was impossible to mistake and it made her breath hitch and the sensation in her belly grow heavier. His pupils were huge in the dark of the evening, the cornflower blue all but gone. The wind whipped an errant lock of her hair lightly across her face and Yakob tucked it back behind her ear, Jen instinctively leaning into the motion, appreciating the care, savouring the caress. He retook her hand, at first a tentative meeting of fingertips, then, when she responded to his touch, his fingers resolutely entwining with hers. They gazed into each other’s eyes, the quiet disrupted only by the thumping of her heart in her throat. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, the softest of touches, but enough to tilt everything she knew.
Jen held still, trying to steady her breathing, trying to keep a clear head. She might sooner have tamed the tide. His breathing was equally ragged. She felt the heat of him and wanting it closer, cast aside any reticence and leaned in. Only, he moved with her, pulling back, leaving her hanging; wanting but lingering. Her brow pulled together. Had she read this wrong? A blush of embarrassment began to creep up her throat but then a small smile twitched on his lips giving her a glimpse of that crooked incisor that did things for her, as his eyes flicked again between her eyes and mouth. No, it wasn’t a slight, nor was he playing her: she could read the desire as clear as day on his face. He wanted her. He wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He might not have noticed doing it, but she had and it mesmerised her. With his free hand he traced a feather-light fingertip from just below her ear slowly along the edge of her jaw, which threatened to melt her completely. Her want became need and it took her a befuddled moment to understand what was detaining them. He was holding back, waiting for her assent.
“Yakob,” she whispered. She didn’t need to say anymore, the plea in her voice was enough. His fingers slid swiftly back along her jaw to thread into her hair like they’d finally been called home and suddenly his mouth was on hers, his body eclipsing the remaining distance between them.
It started as a hungry kiss, their lips keen to discover everything about the other’s mouth immediately, almost as if already fearing it wasn’t to last. But with the realization that this was really happening, things slowed down, morphing into a relieved softness as if their lips had just recognized each other like long-lost lovers. Then came a teasing approach from Yakob: he nipped her lips, chased her tongue and faked retreats. Heat shot up through her chest and down to her belly. The warmth of his breath intermingled with his scent making her light-headed. Sensing his breathing rapidly accelerating Jen dropped the Tupperware box onto the cobbles and flung her hand up around his neck to run her hand along his skin. He let go of her other hand to cup her cheek as if she were the most coveted of prizes. The moan that escaped her she could do nothing about and she was forced to steady herself with a hand on his hip. Her hand on his skin under his shirt sent a shudder down his spine which she found as exhilarating as the tilt of his hips that followed.
He tasted of beer and soya sauce. It wasn’t just a kiss with this man, but with the waterside city itself. To Jen, this was what dreamy tasted like. A low growl in his throat and the fast heartbeat she could feel through his shirt, told her he felt the same, as his hand moved assured from her jaw, trailing a fingertip down her side, to snake inch by inch to the small of her back to draw her closer, deepening their kiss as he did. The clinch of it and his obvious arousal pressing against her caused her insides to contract and her fingers to dig into the skin at his nape, pulling him to her. She basked in his desire, utterly lost in the moment and sensations he was sending through her body. His hand travelled from her back to slowly trace her waist, as if he was storing the contours of her body to memory. Her hand followed suit, from his hip to his face, learning the planes of his jaw and cheekbones, shivering at the light scratch of his stubble on her skin. She drew his face even closer, exploring further with her tongue. He mirrored her determination to know more.
Her every nerve was alive with each touch and shared breath. The breeze off the water did nothing to cool the heat between them. The city around them, the low-level hum of cars and cycle bells, the thrum of the waterbus in the harbour behind, or the murmurs from the GoBoats as they passed below, all added to the otherworldliness of the moment, as he held her in his arms, in a state of bliss which she couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of.
This. This was pure heaven. Surely, she thought, there had been no better kiss, in the world, ever.
“I reserved the right to ask you again, Jen,” he said, when they reluctantly drew apart, for no other reason than needing air. His eyes smouldered as they searched hers for the answer. Jen could see they were filled with a heady mix of hope, desire and lust, which threatened to ignite things in her all over again. She had no idea how long they’d stood there kissing. Her breathing was just short of panting, her heart threatened to burst out of her chest and her knees wanted to buckle. He pushed her lightly by the shoulders to lean against a lamp post, recognising she needed the support, the smile on his face saying the fact amused and pleased him. He leaned against her, and nuzzled her neck, kissing up her throat to her ear, increasing the pressure as he went, presumably to stop her from sliding down the iron work. The absolute pleasure of his mouth on her skin made it nigh on impossible to give clear thought to anything, but behind her closed eyes her lust drew what little thought there was towards how this might play out back on his boat. Oh man …
He pulled his face back from her skin to look at her and then stepped back, giving her space to answer. His hair was a mess – more than before. She was responsible for that. The thought made her smile. Her eyes darted between his, her entire body wanting to fling itself at him anew. He took her other hand and she clasped his tight. As things stood, she wasn’t sure her heartrate would ever recover. And he was asking her to stay. To do that again. And more.
A clock somewhere across the water struck and broke the spell. It felt like a punch to the gut and she was already breathless. The world beyond their little bell jar came rushing back at her, with a huge side order of guilt. She had a fiancé. She was on her hen-do. She could not be having kisses with other men. Especially epic, mind-blowing kisses like this one. There were rules about such things, and she’d agreed to them. Promises made were promises to be kept.
Shaken, she stood up straight, pushing away from the post. She saw the hope die in his eyes, but he nodded, understanding. He released her hand and now she understood the meaning of bereft. They both busied themselves for a moment, looking elsewhere, righting clothes, composing themselves.
“Well, then Yakob,” she said turning back with a small smile, but feeling stricken, “I guess this is thank you and goodbye.” Suddenly everything seemed more formal, the intimate moment gone.
“And you, Jen. As you said, it’s been … magical.” Neither of them thought the word was sufficient now, but for want of something superior it would have to do. “I hope your trip inspires you and that you fall in love wit
h my city.” They stood looking at each other for a long moment, both trying to get a handle on their breathing and belting hearts, both watching the other for some sign. Finally, Yakob ducked his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and headed off.
He managed a single step. Turning back he planted a swift soft kiss on her cheek and with a smile said, “Have a beerlliant day tomorrow.”
Watching him leave, Jen pushed her guilt aside, desperate to save a grain of the magic, just for tonight. She considered the last few hours. They might not have been what she’d planned, but they had been some of the most astonishing hours she’d ever had. And he’d made a beer pun.
British tourist Lydia Attison became the 3 millionth passenger on Tivoli’s Vertigo, winning her a Tivoli Gardens human-sized teddy bear. Lydia who is missing a leg, is seen here upside down in a selfie she took on the ride which rises 30 metres above the park, taking 360 degree turns at up to 100km an hour. Apparently unaffected by the 5G, she was unable to give a quote, being keen to look after her unwell friends.
Translated from Københavns Tidende newspaper, Copenhagen.
Chapter 11
“Jen, darling? Have you heard a thing I’ve said?”
She forced her eyes to focus on Ava. She’d zoned out a while back, Ava’s voice having just become a wall of noise. “Of course,” she bluffed. “That’s amazing.” Amazing was usually the response Ava most cherished.
“I know, right? Zara’s a lucky thing. A whole extra week at twenty percent off? Anyone would extend their vacay with an offer like that.” Jen wasn’t so sure. Most people saw work as something you actually turned up to do. “Anyways, she’s looking forward to the hen-do. Give Lydia my number so we can plan. You look exhausted – a spa weekend is the obvious choice.”
“Mmmhhh,” Jen murmured, keeping her head down. Her head was bursting with all the memories of the weekend, but she couldn’t talk about it. She’d had to tell Robert the previous night that they’d broken down on the way back from a trip to the Harry Potter studio tour so would miss their date, when in fact she’d been standing in the check-in queue in Copenhagen, propping up Lydia’s ridiculous teddy bear. Thankfully, Robert didn’t know the first thing about Harry Potter to quiz her and Ava never asked how anyone else had spent their weekends.
Probably the Best Kiss in the World Page 9