He would ignore her calls, decline to see her in the future, and forget he’d ever met her––just as he knew Raph was trying to do––because the truth had struck Tele with the speed and certainty of a lightning bolt: he was madly in love with Helena, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He was determined to do right by Raph, but the moment Helena voiced a craving for giouvarlakia after passing a billboard for Olympia’s Table––a mediocre Greek restaurant in the Cherry Creek neighborhood, his love for her had outweighed his loyalty to his brother.
He knew exactly how Raph would feel if he found out he was spending time with his ex-girlfriend. But the opportunity to cook for her––to show off his culinary skills and satisfy her craving for the tangy meatball soup of their home country––had proved impossible to pass up.
Tele maintained his connection with Greece through food. Some of his favorite memories were of cooking with his grandmother, washing rice for spanakorizo, or learning how to season fish with fresh herbs, onions, and peppers. He’d loved his grandmother’s giouvarlakia and, although she’d died before she could teach him how to make it herself, he’d faithfully followed the recipes in her cookbooks, and could now prepare the meatballs, lemony sauce, and broth with his eyes closed.
They’d been mere blocks from her hotel, but instead of taking a left onto 16th Street and walking away from temptation, Tele had turned right and headed home.
Two hours later, after changing into grey sweatpants and the red Mountain Mama Café t-shirt Helena had bought him that afternoon, he and Helena were on the couch in his living room, legs folded beneath them, savoring his delicious, soul-soothing soup, and a pitcher of his homemade lemonade. The historic textile mill on the South Platte River had been home to Tele since he’d moved to Denver three years earlier, and though his apartment covered the entire top floor of the expansive red brick building, it felt cozy and intimate inside beneath the dimmed Tiffany chandelier, casting a warm, amber light over them.
They’d talked into the early morning hours about everything and nothing at all––recent books they’d read, their favorite pizza topping combination, concert they’d attended, the merits of pebbled versus sandy beaches, favorite restaurants, and what superpower they’d choose if given the chance––lightning speed for Helena, and invisibility for Tele.
It was nearly four in the morning before either of them had noticed the time, but the sudden awareness of the hour had done little to dissuade them.
Instead, they’d inched closer, their elbows propped on the back of the sofa as they each confessed what a wonderful time they’d had, how often they had thought about each other over the past ten months, and how natural it felt to be in each other’s company again.
As their gazes locked, Tele could see their future reflected in her eyes. The children they would have. The memories they would create. He’d imagined a little girl with Helena’s soulful, inquisitive blue eyes, and a little boy with her lustrous brown hair. In his mind, he had already built their dream home, had already married her, had already lived a thousand lives with Helena Christou by his side.
They had embraced without thought, drawn by something beyond their conscious control; their lips had brushed softly against each other’s necks, their skin burning with unspoken desire. Tele had cupped her face, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheekbone, and she’d rested her forehead against his, breathing in the faint scent of his day-old cologne.
They’d stayed like that for several minutes––neither daring to do more, neither willing to pull away. Eventually, they’d lain down on the couch, tangled in each other’s arms, and fallen asleep––but not before Helena had nuzzled her nose against his earlobe, tightened her hold around his torso, and whispered, “I love you”.
“Se periptósi pou den écho tin efkairía na to xanapó,” she’d added. In case I don’t get the chance to say it again.
Those three little words had stirred up a whirlwind of bittersweet emotions in Tele, because he knew that in the six months she had been with Raph, Helena had never said them to him.
He’d realized then that he had loved her from the first day they met in Napa––from the moment he’d shaken her hand. He’d eventually fallen for her lively spirit, and the playful mischievous nature that matched his own, but that first touch had felt like a sonic blast, nearly knocking him over and leaving him breathless.
But the words, I love you, too, had caught in Tele’s throat, choking and clawing at him. He’d closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to say them out loud. Not now. Not when he knew what this would do to his family—what it might destroy…
Sure, Raph had been the one to break up with her, and that was nearly a year ago, but this was breaking every code––every rule in the book. There were just some things you didn’t do, and making a move on your brother’s ex-girlfriend was at the top of that list.
Now, in the harsh light of day, Tele squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images already forming in his mind: the disappointment in his mother’s eyes, the quiet disgust in Neo’s. And Raph... Christ. His rage would be volcanic.
How was he going to justify this? He hadn’t planned for any of it to happen. After all, she had been the one to call him. But he hadn’t done anything to stop it either. No, he’d selfishly indulged himself at every turn, greedily devouring every precious moment, inching closer and closer to the point of no return, until the damage was absolute.
Helena stirred in his arms, her stockinged leg bending and curling around his. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer, seeking physical reassurance that, in the end, Raph and the rest of his family would understand that what he felt for Helena went beyond any code or rule book.
They’ll understand. They’ll have to understand…
He drew in a steady breath and exhaled slowly, yet he felt no less terrified of the chaos about to unfold.
Chapter Seven
Exquisite Agony
Later that night, Los Angeles, California…
“I’m sorry, Mr. Giannopoulos, but Ms. Christou is out of town.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Aarón shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
Can’t, or won’t?
“Should I let her know that you stopped by?”
