She hands me the keys. “It belongs to Herr Franke and has only two seats. My sister will pick me up here. I will visit with her and return to the cottage in three hours to prepare dinner.” She takes a sheet of paper from a wicker handbag and passes it to Phaedra. “The directions.”
“Oh! Huh.” Phaedra unfolds the page. “Paper directions.” She glances at me and lifts one corner of her mouth. “I didn’t know that was still a thing.”
Elena gives a curt nod before returning to the airport building.
I put our bags in the boot and offer Phaedra the keys. “Would you drive?”
Her coppery eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“You’re an excellent engineer—I assume you drive well too.”
A smile twitches on her lips. “Oh, quit sucking up.” She takes the keys from me, turning back the cuffs on her shirt while walking to the driver’s side. “Buckle in, pretty boy.”
It’s meant as mockery. But I’ll take it.
The cottage is seashell white with low, rustic archways, stained-glass windows, and mosaic tile floors. Upon arrival, we chose bedrooms, Phaedra placing her bag in the smallest because it’s farthest from mine. She napped for a few hours, and I recharged in my own way—changing into workout clothes and running on the three hundred steps from Ammoudi to Oia.
After that, I took a long shower during which I admit to a certain amount ofreflectionon Miss Morgan’s charms, imagining her hand rather than my own.
The flinty Elena proved to be an unparalleled cook. Phaedra and I filled ourselves with spanakopita, stuffed grape leaves, htipiti and bread, olives, dates, and shared a bottle of pinot noir on the back patio, which overlooks the Aegean.
The sunset is breathtaking, and I admire it now while lounging on a chaise, watching the candy colors melt into the sea. I’ve almost nodded off, lulled by the music of the waves, when Phaedra returns from her room, where she went to change after dinner.
I straighten when I see her outfit: the shirt is the same, but she now wears an ankle-length orange skirt. A loosely woven blanket is draped over her shoulders, serving as a shawl in the evening chill. Her feet are bare, and I can’t help staring at them.
“What?” She drags the other chaise farther from mine before sitting. “Don’t gawk like a weirdo.”
I emit a small, helpless laugh. “I’ve just never seen you in a skirt.”
She yanks the fabric down to cover her legs. “Blame Elena—this is the only thing I have with an elastic waist.”
“What about pajamas?”
“I don’t wear pajamas.” Her eyes are closed when she says it, but fly open as she realizes what she’s let slip.
“I don’t either.” My voice comes out lower than I expected.
She peeks at me before fussing with the skirt, drawing up her legs.
“I, uh, talked to Mo,” she says, clearly reaching to change the subject rather than lingering on the point of our respective sleep-nudity. “He’s gonna be in Switzerland a few more days. He’s—” She chews at her lower lip. “Meeting with someone.”
I’m unsure why she’s telling me this. I assumed Ed Morgan was away on business, but there’s a tension to Phaedra’s tone. I sense she wants me to ask for details.
“Yes? New sponsor?”
“No, no.” She flips one hand, as if I’m badgering her. “It’s nothing.”
In the shadows of a fading sunset, I covertly study her expression. Her brows are pinched, and it may be a trick of the ruddy light, but she looks teary.
The awareness falls around me, weighty and frightening, that she could easily have stayed in her room after the meal. But she’s come out to sit with me, the man she hates, and is angling to confide something.
The responsibility feels overwhelming. Every week I climb into a twelve-million-dollar car and feel less pressure, even knowing I may put it into the wall. Phaedra’s trust seems more fragile and valuable.
“The meeting,” I venture. “Not business?”
She shakes her head, watching the sea, twisting one of the ties on her shirt around her finger tightly. She unwinds it and her hand drops, dangling alongside the chaise.
“It’s… it’s a d-doctor,” she falters, just above a whisper.
