‘Try the tiropitakia while it’s warm.’ He lifts a feta triangle to my lips and I take a delicate bite, trying not to munch his fingers in the process. The gesture is strangely intimate and I’m glad I’m eating so I don’t try and fill the silence with inane chatter to cover my nerves. The crispy tangy triangle is delicious.
‘Another bite?’ he says and I nod.
I’ve never had a man gently feed me like this before. It feels wildly romantic as he takes every care to save me from filo crumbs, holding a napkin under his hands as he brings the treat to my lips again and again.
Georgios must know about love languages and that I’m ruled by my love of food. Not in a gluttonous way, well not always, but that there’s an art form in making dishes with love and respect for the produce, for the person who will eat those creations and appreciate the care that went into creating every bite. I love that food can tell a story, share a history of a place, a culture. Its climate.
I want to thank him in return so I pick up a plump olive and pop it in his mouth. My fingertip brushes against the softness of his lip. It feels sensual somehow. I glance away, not sure what it means or if this is just what people do here when sharing luscious morsels of food.
We continue feeding each other as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. We delight over the flavours, the freshness, our luck at sharing such an adventure on the water, washed down with fancy champagne, the sun on our faces.
When we get to the caldera, it’s almost an afterthought. I’m so consumed by him I feel a bit like I’m upside down. It’s stunning – a marvel – but so is he. It’s as though we’ve both peeled back a superficial layer of ourselves today, and exposed the white heat of what lies beneath. Either that or it’s some kind of sunstroke.
After our adventure, I feel more at ease with him. I suppose facing your fears really puts things into perspective. ‘We should do more Santorini sightseeing.’ I’m supposed to be wooing the man, after all, and it turns out I’m enjoying it. A little too much.
‘I’d love to,’ he says.
*
Later that afternoon we return to Bibliotherapy. I’m sleepy after so much sunshine when I’m met with the cool shade of the bookshop. Gran’s helping a few customers and waves me away, implying she doesn’t need any help. It’s only because Georgios is beside me, otherwise she’d usually leave for cocktails with her friends at this hour, but I keep that little nugget to myself. The sun has a bite and has left its mark on my cheeks. Blame the amount of fun we were having.
I turn to the Grecian god himself and say, ‘Do you want to head outside to Muses? I’ll get some drinks sorted and we can brainstorm for the launch party?’ Usually, I have a finite limit for peopling but so far Georgios hasn’t hit that threshold. And he seems keen to help with the launch party ideas, even though my brain feels mushy from the day. From him.
‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I’ll borrow a notebook and pen from Floretta and meet you outside.’
‘There’s a pen thief. Long story but I have a stash inside a book box, cleverly disguised asWar and Peaceunder the counter.’
‘I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Smart.’
When I return with a jug of lemon water and glasses I find Georgios surrounded by the pups all vying for his attention, including skittish Lily. Well, there’s one for the books. Even canines flock to him like he’s the second coming. The man must have some strong pheromones or something. It’s another tick in the box for Georgios because dogs can sense good and bad when it comes to humans. If their antics today are anything to go by, theyadorehim.
Zeus pulls rank and jumps into his lap. Georgios lets out an ‘Oomph’. Houdini appears and then just as quickly disappears. ‘Where did that dog go?’ he asks, darting his head around to search for him. ‘I’m sure he had a wallet in his mouth.’
‘A wallet?’ Part of me wants to ignore Houdini’s antics because he has the ability to make me feel like a heart attack is imminent, but for his own safety I narrow my eyes and crane my neck. Dammit. ‘Houdini, get down this SECOND!’ I’m sure he’s smirking at me from his perch on the blue domed roof of Bibliotherapy with what looks to be a wallet in his chops. He’s got some ninja stealth skills being able to bound so high and so fast without a sound.
‘How did he …?’ Georgios gazes up at the cheeky mutt who in one fell swoop lunges towards me. I let out a scream and get ready to catch him but at the last minute he pivots and lands gracefully on a sun lounger, spitting the wallet to the ground.
My heart hammers at his death-defying stunt. ‘You naughty …’ He’s gone. We’re left with only the imprint of his paws on the cushion. ‘Is this yours?’ I ask Georgios.
‘Yes, how did he get it out of my pocket?’
‘No idea.’
I pour two glasses of water to rehydrate; after all that glorious champagne, and we toss around ideas before deciding to keep the party relatively simple so Epeolatry itself will be the focus. I jot down notes about marketing materials I can whip up and what we’ll put in gift bags for guests: bookmarks, a notebook, personalised Epeolatry pens. A library card pencil case. Small things that bookworms will use with our branding. I expect Georgios to raise a brow at the suggestion of spending money that could be used for the rent arrears, but he must understand we’ve got to spend money to make money, so I plough on.
‘Now to the important part. Aside from members who’ve already joined who shall we invite?’ I ask. While Georgios doesn’t live in Santorini full-time, he still knows almost all of the locals from spending his formative years here.
He puts on a thinking face, a sort of duck lips that looks adorable. ‘You definitely want to invite the local mayor and her husband. Mayor Andino is heavily invested in literature and the arts and will be a real asset going forward.’
‘That sounds promising.’
‘Also, you’ve got the billionaire beach bums; they’re bound to make a splash sharing Epeolatry pictures online.’
‘Billionaire beach bums … who arethey?’ Have I come across them in on my bike rides to the sea? I’m slightly jealous that they can buy their body weight in books and spend all day reading under a beach umbrella with nary a monetary care in the world.
‘The brat pack. Super-wealthy twenty-somethings who live on trust funds and follow the sun on their luxury yachts. One Instagram post from them and Epeolatry’s reputation will be made.’
