Chapter 2 #2
This morning, I woke up in Thailand, hot and sticky and nervous. Now, I’m at a beautiful taverna on Santorini, drinking red wine and waiting for a marvelous Greek meal. I have no idea where my life is headed. I have no idea what to hope for, minus more of this!
And then, from behind her, the restaurant owner called out, “Angelos!” He burst into a gorgeous monologue in Greek, one that told her how pleased he was to see whoever Angelos was.
Wren told herself she couldn’t turn around.
But when Angelos answered, heat spread through her chest and down into her belly.
It was him. The Greek guy from the hotel. Angelos.
She couldn’t help herself. She twisted in her chair and caught Angelos’s eye, fluttering her fingers.
“Wren Harper!” Angelos’s smile was brighter than the moon.
The restaurant owner repeated her name, as though it were a joke. “Wren Harper!”
Wren laughed, throwing her head back.
“What is it they say? Of all the gin joints in all the world,” Angelos boomed, coming over to her.
“You’re a Casablanca fan?” Wren asked.
“I dabbled in film theory at university.” Angelos shrugged. “Before my parents demanded that I come home from Athens and… well, you already know! I work at the inn, and I suppose I will forever work at the inn. But this is the best restaurant in all of Oia! Did you hear that, Andreas?”
Andreas, the restaurant owner, raised his glass of beer. “The very best!”
“How did you know to come here?” Angelos asked Wren.
“I liked the vibe.” Wren shrugged.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Angelos rubbed the back of his neck. “I promise I am not a stalker. I had a long day at the inn, and I always come here for a snack and a drink.”
Wren’s heart thudded. She’d never been one to believe in “fate,” but she had to wonder if a part of her had wanted Angelos to follow her. Had she walked into this restaurant because it seemed more “traditional” and less “touristy” and therefore one that might draw Angelos?
“Please do.” Wren gestured to the chair across from her.
She felt herself grin wider. Was she flirting with him?
She hadn’t had a travel fling in ages—maybe because she was still reeling from the Graves’ disease diagnosis and her father’s death or because she ached with guilt about leaving her sisters behind.
But she couldn’t resist Angelos. She decided, right then and there, that if he kissed her, she’d welcome it.
When his wine arrived, he raised his glass. “To fate.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Wren said, clinking her glass with his.
“What do you believe in?” Angelos asked, leaning closer.
Wren thought for a moment. “I believe in jet lag,” she said with a laugh. “Everything I see and hear feels a little fuzzy right now.”
“The food will do you good,” Angelos assured. “What did you order?”
Wren told him, and Angelos nodded, his face stoic. Just as the Thais do, the Greeks took their food seriously.
“It’s very good, but I think we can do more than that,” Angelos said, turning around to throw a rapid flow of Greek back at Andreas, who went back to the kitchen to tell the cook.
“They’ll put together a few plates of different things to try,” Angelos said.
“You’ll love everything. It’s all very different and very good. I hope you’re hungry?”
In response, Wren’s stomach growled with pain.
Angelos laughed. “I speak that language, too.”
While they waited for the food, the wine flowed easily.
Wren was amazed at the stories Angelos told her about his failed film theory education in Athens, about sailing through the Greek islands, and about how devastating it was to be in Santorini during July and August, as it was far too crowded and chaotic.
“It no longer feels like my home,” he said sadly.
In return, Wren told him about Bluebell Cove, how the summertime tourist season could be similar, but that it was a blessing for her family, who worked in tourism.
She told him about her sisters, how Celia was a prominent journalist, how Juliet had been a renowned fashion designer, and how they’d all returned home after their father’s death to regroup.
“But not you.” Angelos frowned. Their food had arrived, which they shared, and he took a bite of a fried sardine, chewing slowly.
Wren felt a tightness in her throat. “Not me.”
“You’re a free spirit,” he said. “A photographer. You see the world differently than they ever could.”
Wren raised her shoulders. “I think everyone has a unique perspective.”
“It’s not always a sellable perspective,” he said. “But I suppose you’re right.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. The air seemed to sparkle between them. “I always wanted to travel that much. But I suppose you always work alone?”
Wren laughed. Never before had someone vaguely suggested that they travel together, so she assumed it was a joke.
“Ah. It’s funny to you, the idea of traveling with someone else?” Angelos asked.
Wren took a breath and looked at him. She couldn’t believe the genuine glint in his eye.
But when she imagined it—Angelos and Wren, running through some beautiful, imagined future—she couldn’t believe how much she wanted it.
All this time, she’d thought she wanted to be single.
But the truth was, she’d never met anyone she liked enough to take with her.
“We don’t know each other,” Wren said, trying to smile.
“No,” Angelos agreed. “We don’t know each other.”
They held the silence for a beat. Wren’s excitement churned together with her exhaustion. Her stomach was full of moussaka and fish and potatoes and eggplant and cheese and olive oil and wine. She wanted to collapse on a bed and sleep for days and days. But she also couldn’t leave him.
“Shall we have one more glass of wine?” she asked finally.
Angelo grinned wider. “I could never say no to a little more time with you.”