Should be OK. I’ll check Gran can cover the bookshop and let you know.
Who am I kidding? All I’d have to do is mention his name and she’ll be throwing barely-there bikinis in my direction. Still, she has been rather aloof of late as if she’s weighed down by heavy thoughts. It could be the business, but I suspect it’s more than that.
Under the guise of asking about time off for the beach jaunt tomorrow, I sneak into her villa and snoop around. Specifically searching for any more notes that mention her new husband. I dart into her room and check the same jewellery box, but there’s nothing to be found. I don’t have the courage to broach it with her until I have some more information. So far there’s nothing concrete to go on. In the kitchen I check the drawers but again come up empty.
Am I buying into another of Mom and Posy’s conspiracies? As I search the rest of the villa, I contemplate it all. It’s the wording on the note I found that bothers me most. Why isn’t he to be trusted? And who wrote it? My search is fruitless so I resolve to keep a closer eye on Gran …
Chapter 15
After yet another epic cycle, I chain up my bike and I head to the shore to meet Georgios. I spot him on the sidelines chatting to a group of people who toss a frisbee back and forth. Since we’ve been catching up, I notice slight changes in him, like he’s adjusting to island time, the rhythms and the pace of Santorini. I too, feel like I’m taking a deep breath here, and behaving in a more relaxed manner, as the real-life rush of big-city living recedes.
As I get closer, I note he has a book tucked under one arm. It makes me smile. I’ve got one in my tote in case I arrived before him. Who wants to be kept waiting without the company of a good book?
It’s fun to watch him interact as if he knows these people well. Like Roxy, maybe he’s distantly related to half the island too. I love the fact they have this solid base where they can return, where it seems like nothing ever changes except the faces of tourists.
When Georgios clocks me he waves hello and jogs over. All he needs is one of those orange life preservers and he could be in aBaywatchtrailer. The theme music plays in my mind and I hope to God that ear worm won’t last all day.
‘Evie.’ He pecks my cheek; the scent of his peppery cologne mingles with the salty air.
‘Hi, Georgios, you look happy today.’
‘I am, I think.’
‘You think?’
He kicks the sand with a toe. ‘My publisher issued a formal apology. While it’s a formality, it should stop tongues wagging that I was under some cloud of suspicion about the impromptu firing.’
While I’m thrilled he’s had this sort of exoneration, part of me deflates at the idea that he might pack his suitcase and catch the next plane out of here and return to his job. Where would that leave Gran? Our fake relationship would end, just as quickly as my real ones do. Disappointing but strangely consistent with real life. ‘Wow. Will you go back to your job?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not in a million years. It wasn’t handled well and I became the scapegoat. Forgivable but not forgettable.’
I exhale the angst and spontaneously jump-hug him. I’ve never jump-hugged anyone before, so it takes us both by surprise. I land in his arms, with one leg sort of wrapped around his knee, the other up near his neck. All this cycling is really doing wonders for my flexibility. But it’s still ungainly and awkward and I don’t quite know how to extricate myself.
Do I pretend this is the norm for a jump-hug and continue trying to climb him like a tree or give up and suffer my fate like the fool I am? I decide to go for it, and bring both legs to his hips and pray he catches them. He does! He puts a hand under my rump and brings me in tight. His poor novel falls to the sand. Once there, I die of mortification. Firstly: because our sexy bits are basically touching with only the thinnest fabric between us and secondly: WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? What on earth compelled me to partake in such an exercise?
His lips are a mere breath away from mine, and it’s like I’m possessed by some kind of lusty devil because I feel the urge to kiss him again. As I’m dithering he takes the lead and kisses me. I’m so shocked I go to protest and accidentally find myself in an open-lip kiss. And boy can the guy kiss! I melt into his arms and the sensation, and figure since this isn’t real I may as well enjoy it, even though we are constantly breaking my dating rules: when kissing is permitted and just what type of kiss. Spoiler alert: open-mouth kissing is either one month, or eleven dates, depending on what comes first. These rules have been made mathematically, with previous ex-date statistics factored in. FOR VERY GOOD REASON.
When I think I’m going to die from lack of oxygen, panicking and perhaps this strange lust that Evie 2.0 is forcing upon me, the kiss ends. What is going on with me? We stare deeply into each other’s eyes, and I look for clues that this is a dare, or he’s pranking me – anything to explain this strange set of circumstances – but find nothing except a sort dazed look that reflects my own. How can a fake kiss be so … potent? It’s probably because we’ve done things out of my specific order. Rushing ahead like this is bound to cause this sort of feeling of unrestrained lust.
It’s time to abort mission! I edge my way down his body, which turns out to be a mistake as I can feel lumps and bumps and I do not want to picture just what those are. I will my muscles to relax as Georgios shifts position and lifts me from his body and places me on to the soft sand.
I smooth down my hair, which is wild and woolly as if I’ve just been flung around a bed or something. That’s sort of what it feels like and I colour, thinking that every single person on this beach may just have witnessed whatever the hell that was. I’m not a PDA person, which I expect doesn’t surprise anyone, yet here I am again making a spectacle of myself.
‘Would you like to have some lunch? Get out of the sun for a bit?’ he asks, picking up his fallen book simply as if my world did not just tip upside down while I’m hanging on by my nails and sheer adrenaline alone.
‘Lunch. Yes.’
I’m hot from the sun and the whirring of my brain. I’m like a computer that needs to be restarted again so the electrical impulses going haywire have a moment’s rest.
There’s a group of teenagers cavorting at the beach. A young girl waves and takes her phone, snapping a picture of us.
I’m slightly alarmed at the intrusion when Georgios says, ‘That’s my cousin.’
‘Why would she take a photo of us like that?’ I only hope my jump-hug wasn’t filmed. Going viral once on TikTok is plenty for this lifetime. And I can’t even blame alcohol, dammit.
‘The thing is …’
He motions to a black-pebbled road as we head away from the beach and zigzag up small laneways. It should be obvious that Santorini is hilly from the often-shared pictures of the iconic whitewashed buildings with blue roofs stacked up the side of a cliff, but I guess I never really considered I’d be walking up and down those very steep slopes every day. I’m beginning to understand why visitors wear minimal clothes. It’s too hot to wear layers.
