CHAPTER 21
NINA MARCHESI
“So—which one of them are you actually seeing?” a customer asks while I’m turned away from the entrance, restocking the honey shelf behind the counter.
I turn only my head, looking at her over my shoulder. Her young face and sun-kissed skin tell me she’s probably close to my age, but the expression on it is one I sincerely hope I never wear myself.
Her dark, straight hair falls loose down her back, two long strands tucked behind her ears.
Her dark eyes wait almost eagerly for my answer, and I grow tired of looking at her once I notice the blue dress she’s wearing—and the magazine tucked under her arm, which leaves no doubt about the topic she’s referring to.
Besides her, two other women watch me expectantly. Apparently, for this trio, the gossip they read in today’s newspapers and magazines wasn’t enough.
One thing I’ll never get used to is just how far Khione’s residents will go for fresh gossip.
My face made the papers again this morning. But today’s headlines didn’t show photos of just Nero and me.
The images captured the moment we returned to the marina last night—Nero, me, and his friends. I spent the entire day hearing whispers about what that might mean, because once again, the audacity of this island knows no limits.
I lost count of how many people came into the shop today without buying a single thing—only to make conversation, hoping to dig up something new.
Thank God my mother is away. This would’ve driven her insane.
I don’t mind people talking about me as much as they want. I know my limits very well—and I know I’m not crossing any of them.
Besides, I also know that at some point people will get tired of talking about my life. I’ll only be the hot topic until the next scandal comes along. As long as the chatter doesn’t hurt my mother, let them talk.
I play dumb.
“Sorry?” I ask.
My obvious lack of willingness to cooperate doesn’t discourage the woman—whose name I don’t even remember. She pulls the magazine from under her arm and holds it up, showing me the photo.
“Which one of the four?” she asks more bluntly, and I let a falsely polite smile slide onto my face.
“I think you’ve got the wrong door. We sell fruit, spices, and honey here—we don’t sell information,” I say, blinking at her.
A mildly shocked expression crosses her face, and I almost laugh.
So being incredibly invasive doesn’t shock her—but being treated the way her behavior deserves does?
Oh, please.
If only God would bless me with a tea that cured stupidity.
“I was just asking a question,” she defends herself, clutching the magazine to her chest dramatically. The other two whisper to each other, which I completely ignore.
“And I gave you an answer. Sorry it wasn’t the one you wanted. Can I help you with anything else? A bottle of Rosa’s special honey, maybe?” I offer, turning fully toward her with one of the bottles in hand.
“If you don’t talk, people will think you’re with all of them, you know,” she warns.
I purse my lips and arch a brow, pretending to consider it.
“Would that really be such a bad thing?” I tilt my head slowly. “I mean—all four of them… That would be quite the accomplishment, don’t you think?”
The brunette’s mouth falls open, her eyes widening.
Oh no.
Apparently, she doesn’t understand sarcasm.
I almost regret my words when I realize there’s a very real chance I just added jet fuel to today’s gossip.
I roll my eyes inwardly and shrug.
I’m the topic only until I’m not.
They’ll get tired of it.
“So you’re saying that—”
“Are you sure you don’t want a bottle of Rosa’s special honey?” I interrupt again, holding it out.
She lets out a deep, noisy sigh.
“No, thank you,” she says, turning to leave. The other two follow immediately, performing a bizarre Greek version of Mean Girls.
I laugh to myself, wondering if they wear pink on Wednesdays.
I shake my head and check the clock. Closing time is close.
I turn back to the honey shelf, then do a quick inventory of the other shelves that need restocking and get to work.
The next few minutes pass in a rhythm of bending, lifting, and placing—enough to fill my head so I don’t think about anything else.
Not even the man who’s taken over every previously empty space in my mind since last night.
To be honest, he’s claimed some of the full ones too.
Nero simply evicted every thought he didn’t consider important or urgent and took their place in my chaotic head.
“Excuse me—is this where I find the person responsible for my favorite show?”
The devil’s own voice reaches me just as I’m closing the register. I look up with a smile, genuinely happy about the surprise visit—even though it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since he dropped me off last night.
“Maybe I should start selling tickets,” I suggest, teasing.
He shrugs.
“As long as I’m the only one buying all of them, I don’t see a problem.”
“That was a very good answer,” I say, stepping out from behind the counter and into his arms. “Hi,” I whisper against his lips when he lowers his head to kiss me.
“Hi, Little Fae,” he replies, kissing my lips again—then my nose.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here?”
“I didn’t want to leave you alone. If you’d told me yesterday that your mom had traveled, I would’ve come back to keep you company.”
I look at the man holding me, and it’s hard to swallow the eager sigh trying to escape my lips.
Nero always seems to know exactly what to say.
I refused to think about what the weekend meant to me until I was lying in my own bed, alone with my thoughts. When that moment came, I realized there was nothing I truly needed to think about—except Nero himself.
Virginity was never a big deal to me. I kept it because, until now, I had other priorities. Having sex with just anyone to lose a label never seemed particularly sensible.
Still, the words Nero said while looking me in the eyes two nights ago carried an impossible weight to dismiss:
“I’m just trying to make your first time special.”
It’s not about the first time.
But what woman wouldn’t want the man she chose to share her body with to care enough to want that?
I find it hard to imagine one.
“You don’t need to do this,” I finally say.
Nero smiles wickedly. He lowers his lips to my ear, and his next words are whispered—sending a shiver through me.
“I have my own interests.”
I laugh at his foolishness.
“Oh yeah? That must be the shortest sex strike in history.”
“If I remember correctly, I made you come at least four times yesterday, Little Fae. I don’t think that qualifies as a sex strike—but it’s good to know you missed my cock.”
Nero bites my lower lip and tugs it gently.
The bluntness of his words—right in the middle of my everyday life—makes my cheeks heat instantly, and he laughs.
“Are you still sore?” he asks.
The only answer I can give him is a small nod.
“Then I guess I’ll need to get creative.”