7 Santorini

7

SANTORINI

PHAEDRA

At first, I think our cover is blown—there are so many eyes on Cosmin as we walk the narrow, cobbled lanes of Oia. Can there be that many Formula 1 fans in this tiny Greek town? Then I notice: it’s all women. The attention is because of his beauty, of course.

Your brain is above your heart, Schatzi. Klaus’s presence is in my mind like an Austrian Jiminy Cricket, cautioning me to behave. So my brain scolds my heart, which is crouched like a defending tiger wanting to scratch out the eyes of the women leering at the man who had me weak-kneed and wet a few hours ago.

True, I don’t typically go for blondes, but Ardelean is kinda killing me today.

As we explore Oia’s shops and kiosks, I watch him, and I watch women watch him. He’s wearing a white dress shirt turned up to the elbows, untucked over jeans with rolled cuffs and—oh, God help me—gray Converse.

I almost always wear Converse myself, and I’m a sucker for a boy who wears them too. I’d wonder if he bought them recently to impress me, but they’re scuffed and creased. His outfit is effortlessly adorable: from the waist up, like a sexy best man at a wedding after a few drinks; from the waist down, solid indie cred.

He’s examining an outdoor table of small ceramic boxes, their glaze blue as the surrounding sea. His wavy, long-on-top hair is nodding against his forehead in the breeze, and as he combs it back with his fingers, I imagine him raking my hair. Grabbing a handful. Pulling just enough…

Well, shit. That little daydream escalated quickly.

I’m doomed.

My common sense says Cosmin and I are both so intense that things would be fucking amazing for about a week, followed by wanting to murder each other, and the team would implode. Remembering he’s a smug asshole isn’t really helping.

He buys a ceramic box, and at another table deliberates over sets of hair combs.

“I need your help,” he tells me. Gesturing at two, he asks, “Which would look better with this color hair?” He points at his own.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty princess!” I tease.

“So amusing. It’s for my sister, Viorica—she looks like me. But a little gray too.”

I take two combs and hold them near Cosmin’s head.

“This one looks great,” I say.

My fingers are so close to his hair, longing to plunge in and feel it. I hope my heartbeat isn’t visible through my thin shirt.

He buys the set and an old-fashioned hand mirror.

Halfway through the shopping district, we pass a confectionery. A mouthwatering scent wafts out, and a rosy-cheeked matron stands next to the doorway with a tray of samples.

She doesn’t speak English, but Cosmin tries French, which she knows. He says something, opening a hand toward me, and the woman raises her eyebrows and nods, smiling.

“Hey, no fair!” I laugh. “What’s the big secret?”

“No secret,” he says, almost shy. He picks up a sample—a piece of something that looks like fudge with bits of cookie—and holds it near my mouth. “I referred to you as my beautiful friend.”

Klaus was right, all the times he’s said there’s something magical about Santorini. Because in the space of twenty-four hours, Cosmin is sort of my friend.

In my chest, there’s a jolting collision between the apprehension that it won’t last after we rejoin the team in China, and the apprehension that it will .

I open my mouth and he puts in the candy, touching my lower lip. He takes a piece himself, and his long, golden lashes flutter closed in a way that’s unnervingly suggestive as he savors the candy. They open, drowsy with pleasure.

“What do you think?” he asks, focusing on me. “Like heaven, yes?”

I discreetly lick chocolate from my back teeth. “Hell yeah. It’s way good.”

Cosmin asks the woman a question and she laughs, her eyebrows lifting in shock. She grins and nods, taking the tray inside.

“What did you ask her?”

“I’m having ten kilos sent to—” He pauses. “To family in Romania.” He drapes an arm around me and leads me into the shop.

I nearly shove my foot directly into my mouth by commenting that he doesn’t have that much family but withhold the observation as I realize he must be sending the candy to the orphanage-type-thing he and his sister fund.

His relaxed joy at choosing the gift touches me, I have to admit. He isn’t even trying to boast about it.

Okay, okay. Points for the peacock.

Inside, I gesture at a glass case where there’s a long roll of the biscuit-fudge.

“Says here it’s called ‘mosaiko.’ We could look it up online and get a recipe for free. Ten kilos’ll cost a fortune.”

He shrugs. “This will make everyone happy.”

I watch as he gives the woman a shipping address, then runs his credit card for 285 euros plus another seventy for shipping and proceeds to round it up to 450 euros “with a tip.” The woman is falling all over herself with gratitude and sends us off with a gift bag of sweets.

“You made that woman’s day,” I say, as we wander down the lane.

He tips the open bag toward me, and I shake my head. He fishes out something covered in nuts and pops it in his mouth.

“Good,” he says around the candy. “Perfect day for everyone.”

My heart gives a giddy kick, and I look away. “I don’t think she expected a tip, especially such a generous one. You’re a big tipper.”

“I’m a big everything ,” he assures me with a wink.

I roll my eyes. “I knew you couldn’t resist being a neanderthal for a full day.”

“Hmm.” He puts the side of his thumb in his mouth, sucking a smudge of chocolate. “Maybe I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to my cave.”

I lean chin in hand on the patio table as my eyes flick to the pieces, then to Cosmin.

I move my king again. “It’s a draw.”

“Perhaps not.” He moves his piece.

My king scoots to the left. “Um, except it is . Let’s call it.”

“You could still make a mistake.”

“Not gonna happen.”

He sighs. “I don’t like to lose.”

“A draw isn’t a loss.”

“Nor a win,” he murmurs, staring at the board.

“And that’s okay! Just have fun.”

“Winning is fun. And I am hoping to distract you into an error.” His eyes narrow in a conspicuously bedroomy way. “I’m told my eyes are magnetic.”

I snort. “You’re told shit like that too often, Ardelean. Which is why you’re an insufferable prick.”

He sits back and studies me. “You still think this after two days together?”

“Not exactly. But it’s your public image. How the world sees you.”

“Everyone loves a rascal.” He lifts his wineglass and finishes the last sip.

I almost don’t say it, but I’ve had three glasses of wine to his one, and it slips out. “Do you love you?”

He wavers in the act of setting the glass down. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why would you answer a question with a question?”

He fiddles with the cuff of the hoodie he’s wearing, as if picking a bit of lint. “Not that question.”

“You mean you don’t want to answer that one,” I state.

“Correct.” He offers a stiff smile. “Ask a different one. But you must answer it too.”

I take a slow breath through my nose and purse my lips for a gusty exhale.

“Okay, way to make it difficult—like when my mom would let me cut a treat in half with my sister, but Aislinn got to choose first.”

There’s a musical clicking from a wind chime made of oyster shells. The shushing of the ocean rises and falls below us.

I peek at him. “What are you afraid of?”

“Hm. I don’t like this question better.”

“Come on—what kind of softball do you want me to throw: ‘ How big is your dick? ’ Be real or this is pointless.”

“You want to see?” he jokes, hands going to the button on his jeans. He pretends he’s about to stand up.

“Cosmin!” I laugh.

He settles in the chair again, and we watch each other.

“All right,” he says. “I’m afraid of… like in the book with the little people and the dragon—the Hobbit book. The dragon—”

“Smaug,” I insert.

“Beautiful. Yes. This dragon has one missing scale. He’s afraid someone will shoot him there—the only weak point.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “So, that’s it. My fear.”

My brow furrows. “I don’t think that’s how it went. The dragon isn’t ‘afraid someone will shoot him there.’ He doesn’t know he has a missing scale.”

“It’s how I remember it.”

“That’s very telling. And you’re being deliberately vague, not saying what the ‘missing scale’ is. Your real fear.”

He shrugs with a blithe mock frown. Reaching for the stem of his empty wineglass, he rotates it, then slants a look at me. “Your turn.”

I give a small huff of laughter. “You get what you give, dude. I’m not planning on baring my soul here: I’m afraid of spiders.”

“Everyone is afraid of spiders.”

“Hey, you set the tone. Wanna try again?”

I can’t tell if he’s thinking or pouting in the silence that follows. Part of me is angry, and I’m not sure why.

Dammit, we did what Klaus instructed. Shared meals, went shopping, watched TV with popcorn, had drinks, talked about superficial shit, got more comfortable. Cosmin’s favorite food is cheese. Favorite book is Nabokov’s Pale Fire . We both love Bowie.

His favorite color is white.

I stand, and with a flick of one finger, tip over my king. “You win. Now it’s not a draw.”

I go into the cottage and head upstairs to get ready for bed. In the morning we’ll go to the airport. Everything back to normal.

Fine, whatever.

I’m practically seething as I brush my teeth, scowling at my reflection. Why am I so pissed? What did I expect? I didn’t want to do this stupid “bonding” thing in the first place.

I walk out of the en suite, hands occupied with braiding my hair for sleep, when I see him standing by the dresser.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

He points at a ceramic box. “Leaving this. I chose it for you.” His lips press together, as if they’re fighting back more words.

I want to walk over, but I resist, folding my arms as we stare each other down.

After a long moment, he relaxes his shoulders with a stifled sigh.

“Perhaps I cannot speak every fear,” he continues, “but today I feared if I admitted this is a gift for you, you would tell me not to buy it. And tonight, playing chess, I was afraid of the night ending. This is why I didn’t want a draw. It makes the game over .”

The way he says this sends my heart skidding as if running on ice.

I walk to the dresser, and he takes a step back to give me space. I glide a hand over the cool lid of the box. The blue-gray glaze is the color of Cosmin’s eyes.

I smile, my throat tight. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

“So is the woman who now owns it.”

I’m not aware of my body sending the invitation, but he reads it nonetheless. In the fraction of a second as he moves toward me, I’m expecting an old-movie-level fierce kiss—my head wrenched back, mouths pressed hard.

Instead his arms drape around my waist as if they’ve always been there, like part of me. Like my own ribs. His forehead leans into mine, and I watch those long, gold eyelashes drop again, like when he was eating the chocolate.

I’m the one who tips my head to capture his mouth. And dear God, the curve of that full lower lip is everything I imagined tasting. Our mouths are closed but soft, searching new angles, touching as if our lips are eyes, scrutinizing each tiny detail to commit to memory. Because I think we both know: a memory is all it can be.

His hands fan out, and he presses me against his pelvis. I feel him hard, wanting, and I flood with electric heat. He’s everything I’m missing—the need is overwhelming.

He’s not moving, but some part of me can feel the way he would , if I let him in: the hot rolling of our hips, the wet juncture of our bodies as his cock fills me, sweaty skin and the jab of bones and a rhythm pushing us toward ecstasy.

I’m absolutely twitching inside, and it takes every bit of pragmatism I possess to pull away—I’ve never been this turned on, though we’re touching so lightly, so cautiously.

His breath is shaky, which is surprising. He smiles down at me.

“No? Afraid of losing those earrings to Natalia?”

“I’m afraid of losing more than that,” I admit in a whisper.

His hands drag up my back, down my arms, catch me at the waist, and slide up again, searching. His thumbs drift across my braless breasts, and my nipples are so tight they ache. I’m torn between not wanting him to leave, and hoping he’ll exit quickly so I can get under the covers and finish what he’s started.

He cradles my neck, those teasing thumbs feathering along my jaw before he brushes one final kiss across my hungry lips. He steps back. I force myself not to glance down and sneak a glimpse of what I’m missing.

Laying one hand on the dresser to balance myself, I close my eyes, laboring to calm the throbbing above and below my waist. I hear his footsteps as he heads for the hallway, but I don’t open my eyes—if I see him leaving, I know I’ll stop him.

His voice slips around the corner. “Good night.”