Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“Sinking the yacht was actually my fault,” I tell the coast guard staff at their station on Paxos.
They’ve separated us for some questioning, and I’m sitting in a windowless, small office.
We’re in a single-story yellow building with a terra cotta roof right on the waterfront.
Which, in this back room, is a distant memory.
“I accidentally bumped into the wheel and set us off course and into the reef.”
“Your fault?” a man asks me in English from across the table.
I nod decisively, my hands flat on the tabletop. “Yes. It’s not Stefanos’ fault, no matter what he says. I distracted him, and I accidentally bumped the controls. Therefore, because he was distracted by me, he didn’t see the reef in time.”
He writes down notes on a pad of paper, then peers at me again. “And you’re Prince Theodor of Denmark.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And what was your destination today?”
“Just a day trip to Paxos and back to Kerkyra. We had left Paxos and were on the way back.”
“And you avoided the reef on the way in.”
“Yes. I was, er, less distracting then.”
“And what was the distraction?” he asks archly.
My face reddens. There’s no way I’m confessing the current behind-the-scenes drama underway within the Danish monarchy, which clearly is riveting, if the sunken yacht is any proof. Obviously, it’s top-tier insider royalty information and caught Stef’s attention like nothing else. “A conversation.”
“A conversation,” he echoes, skeptical. His pen remains poised over the paper. “What was so distracting that the operator couldn’t continue with his duties?”
“It’s… complicated. It has to do with royals.
I don’t think I can say more than that.” I’m not about to tell this man I’ll be the direct heir to the Danish throne once Freja officially abdicates, which could happen at any moment.
Or tell him that I was about to kiss Prince Stefanos. A very closeted Prince Stefanos.
I rub my face with my hands.
“Royal secrets?” he asks.
“Yes. Very royal. Very secret.” I cough slightly.
He writes this down too. At least, that’s what I think he’s writing.
After looking at the page for a long moment, he studies me hard.
As if he can look inside my soul with X-ray vision to find out what truly happened.
And then I wonder if they have lie detector tests in Greece and if they’re legal here and if they’ve ever done one on a prince before.
Or if they’re about to start now. “And you’re taking responsibility for this situation? ”
“In so much I caused the accident, yes.”
He underlines something written in bold Greek script, nods, and rises. “You are free to leave.”
“Wait. That’s it?” I look at him, startled. I was about ready for him to take me to open waters and threaten to make me walk the plank.
“For now.”
They already have my contact details and a copy of my ID from earlier.
I get to my feet, too, and go to the front door to wait for Stefanos.
I fidget with the zip of my borrowed anorak from him.
Before long, Stefanos appears too, looking weary as we step outside the front door of the coast guard building.
I force myself to keep my hands at my sides.
To not reach out to smooth the worry from his face.
“We have a private charter to take us back to Kerkyra,” Stefanos tells me, downcast. “And I called my father.”
I give him a wry look. I’ve already called Miles to fill him in. “How did that go?”
“The good news is I’m not disowned. Yet.” Stefanos winces. He shakes his head. There’s a weight in him I haven’t seen before the yacht sinking. From what I know about Stef, he’s so careful and thoughtful at all times, unlike some of the rest of us. “Anyway, he’s glad we’re safe.”
We head out into the afternoon, down the promenade, where we find our charter boat.
Before long, we’re underway, and Stefanos is withdrawn into himself despite a couple of attempts to engage him in conversation.
In his seat, he’s huddled in the cool air, arms folded tight across his chest. The captain, a gruff man, also says little, and we listen to Greek talk radio, which is entirely lost on me.
When we reach Kerkyra, my shoulders ease as if I’m returning home.
It feels like we’ve been gone for a week instead of the day.
We’re both starving, since our picnic is now lost somewhere on the sea floor for future archaeologists, and aside from the tea the coast guard gave us, we haven’t had anything to eat.
We leave the marina for Stefano’s flat, and when we walk through the door, that’s when exhaustion truly takes over, and the reality of the day hits me. We could have drowned. Or been injured. Or any number of things.
Stefanos has already set to work in the kitchen, pulling food out for us like a conjurer, having made extra earlier. A man with foresight. I’m never that organized, especially not about food.
“This is a miracle,” I marvel, gesturing at the spread of food on the counter.
“It’s not a miracle. It’s leftovers.” Stefanos shakes his head. “I knew we would be hungry by the time we got in.”
We sit at the table and work our way through an array of mezethes and the salad Stefanos fixes up for us. I glance at him across the table. He looks as wrecked as I feel.
“We’ll figure this out,” I tell him. “It’s going to be okay. We’re safe. That’s what matters, right?”
“Mm. I’ll need to call my father again after we finish eating.
” Stefanos’ voice is flat, and he’s about as enthusiastic as someone headed for a root canal.
Except replace root canal with the sinking of a premium yacht, and the heaviness resumes around my shoulders too.
His gaze flickers down to his meal again.
“Yeah… I need to call my mother too.” And I pray that there hasn’t been any coverage as yet in the news or elsewhere.
Not that Mamma’s on social media. But Freja might be, and who knows what she’d say other than you’ll never guess what Theo’s done this time.
I sigh, pushing some leaves around my plate with my fork.
When I glance up, Stefanos gazes at me again.
It’s tough to read his expression. There’s something soft and sad in his eyes, in the tightness of his mouth.
Stefanos clears his throat at last. He hesitates, a long, drawn-out moment.
“I’m very sorry, Theo, but I’ll need you to leave tomorrow. I’ll have a lot to sort out.”
“I can help,” I say in a rush, urgent. “Please.”
“Unless you can undo what happened, I don’t think you can.” His lips press into a line. “You don’t know my father. It would be better for both of us if you weren’t here. My father said he’s on his way to the island.”
I blink. “Where is he?”
“New York.”
My eyes widen. “Right.” Then it’s my turn for a round of throat clearing and fidgeting with my cutlery. How can I convince him that I would do anything to try to make this terrible situation better? “I would stay if it helps—”
“Believe me, it won’t.” His tone is heavy.
At last, I nod slowly, holding Stefanos’ gaze as the familiar ache hits my stomach again.
And here’s another thing I’ve fucked up.
Whatever chance I might have had with Stefanos is also somewhere at the bottom of the Mediterranean off Paxos with the sunken yacht.
I wish I could do something to fix our situation.
To have him not face the fallout alone. “I’m so sorry, Stefanos. Believe me.”
“Me too.” Stefanos just nods, his gaze falling once more. He puts his cloth napkin on the table. “Excuse me, I need to call my father now. He’s waiting.”
“Right. Of course.”
And my heart sinks. That’s it, then. I’ve wrecked any chances with him for good.