Free Not About Love (This Love Book 2) by Hilaria Alexander

verbal foreplay was deliberately testing my self-control.
    “Not here, Boyd…not now. This is not the time or the place,” I told him with a steely gaze.
    “Why not? Come on, Bertie. Don’t shut me down. The evening was finally taking a good turn.” We stared at each other for a few seconds, both of us quiet in a room full of music and chattering.
    “Ally, you look awfully bored sitting here with my son. Would you like to dance?” Mr. Rivers asked, hand stretched forward, bringing me back to reality.
    I was about to refuse, but Boyd said, “Come on, Dad. Leave her alone.”
    “Son, you could learn a thing or two from your father…if you weren’t so goddamn stubborn.” I pursed my lips together, trying not to laugh.
    “I would love to dance, Mr. Rivers. You’re right, by the way. Some men don’t know how to entertain a lady.” I stood up and took Mr. Rivers’ hand, following him to the other side of the living room where most of their friends were dancing. I smiled at him as we took our place among them. I put my hand in his and my other one on his shoulder while his other hand went to the small of my back. Frank Rivers reminded me of both Lou and Boyd. He was as tall and slender as Lou, but while his youngest had gotten his mother’s hair and eyes, I knew from looking at old family photos that Frank Rivers used to have brown hair (it was now mostly gray) and brown eyes that looked exactly like Boyd’s. They even crinkled the same way at the corners.
    We danced in silence for a while, and I focused on the music. Lou had been in charge of making a playlist for the evening. He had made a mix of classic jazz and a few Christmas songs. I recognized the Cole Porter tune that was playing, and was relieved it was a slow song and not an upbeat one. My dancing skills weren’t all that.
    The room smelled like cinnamon and pine, thanks to the big, beautiful tree in the corner of the room and the festive candles lit throughout the house. The living room of the Rivers household had a cathedral ceiling with exposed beams. The walls were an ivory color and the beams a dark mahogany, creating a nice contrast. The wood floors were the same shade of brown. It reminded me of my parents’ home, although the living room of the house I grew up in had lower ceilings. We had a similar fireplace, but we hardly ever used it. The masonry style fireplace in this house, however, looked like it was on all the time. It complemented the Christmas decorations we had helped Ms. Rivers put up earlier that day and created a picture-perfect environment.
    “So, what is it you do in Amsterdam, young lady? You told us before you’re an attorney, but I can’t remember if we ever talked about what you do exactly. You’ll have to forgive me, my memory is not as good as it used to be,” Mr. Rivers said with a wink.
    “Oh, I don’t think we ever talked about it last year when I came over. You know those drug attorneys that will get you out of jail if you get arrested on possession of marijuana? Well, that’s what I do. You’d be surprised how many people manage to get in trouble with the law overseas on the grounds of marijuana possession…or other things. Tourists have this misconstrued idea of Amsterdam as a wonderland where everything is legal, but they’re wrong. You don’t know how often I get hired by some rich kid’s parents because their son had the brilliant idea to leave the Netherlands with a few grams of weed in his pocket…or worse.”
    “Oh, boy. It sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”
    “I do. I worked for another attorney for years, but I have my own practice now.”
    “That’s impressive. Good for you. What made you decide to move all the way to the old continent? Surely, you could have done the same type of work here. What was it about Amsterdam that made it so appealing to you?”
    “Well, it’s a very pretty city…and I always loved Van Gogh…and tulips. I fell in love with the place when I