9. Isabelle
ISABELLE
The beachside bar I go to in the evening smells like saltwater and Greek wine, a bar meant for tourists who want to feel like they've discovered something authentic.
White wooden tables are scattered across a stone patio, and strings of lights overhead make everything glow, the Aegean Sea stretching out beyond the low wall that separates the bar from the beach.
I thought about staying in my hotel and ordering room service, maybe taking a bath, and trying to forget about the last few days. Trying to forget about the stranger from Ibiza who looked at me like he wanted to kill me when I said my name.
But I came here to vacation, to see the sights, not stay in my room, no matter how perfect and luxurious it is.
So I put on a silky white dress with a halter neck, belted at the waist with a jeweled gold chain, sandals, and threw my hair up in a messy bun with tendrils spiraling down my neck, intent on living it up to the fullest. Just like I have been this entire time so far.
That's what the stranger was. Living it up, enjoying my trip, getting fucked within an inch of my life, just like I'd planned. So what if it went weird at the end? It was a good hookup, an incredible one, a once-in-a-lifetime fuck. And now I'm going to find someone to move on past it with.
I take a sip of my wine, a crisp white that tastes like citrus and honey, and try to focus on the view.
The sea is calm tonight, the water reflecting the sunset.
A few boats bob in the distance, their white sails catching the last of the light.
It's beautiful and peaceful. But I still feel restless.
"You look like you could use another drink."
The voice drifts toward me from my left, accented and warm, and I turn to see a man standing beside my table.
He's tall, maybe in his early thirties, with dark hair and olive skin and an easy smile that suggests he's used to charming tourists.
He's handsome in a conventional way—strong jaw, straight nose, white teeth.
I'm sure he's used that line a million times, and that he's here just looking for a pretty tourist to take home…
but that's fine. I'm a pretty tourist, and I want to go home with someone.
He's not devastatingly beautiful like the stranger from Ibiza, but attractive enough.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, then realize I've already finished my wine. The glass sits empty in front of me, and I don't even remember drinking it.
He gestures to the empty glass, his smile widening. "Are you sure? Because it looks like you finished that pretty quickly."
I lick my lower lip, tasting citrus, and see his gaze flick to it. I smile. "Okay. Sure. Another white wine would be great."
His smile turns triumphant, and he flags down a passing waiter, ordering in rapid Greek before turning back to me. "I'm Nikos," he says, pulling out the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.
"Isabelle."
"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman." The line is cheesy, delivered with the confidence of someone who's used it a hundred times before, but there's something disarming about his directness.
He's not trying to be subtle or mysterious.
He's just a man who saw a pretty girl sitting alone and decided to shoot his shot.
It's refreshing, in a way. Simple. I could use simple after the way my encounter with the stranger got out of hand.
"Do you use that line on all the tourists?" I ask, and he laughs.
"Only the ones who look like they need a distraction."
The waiter returns with my wine and a beer for Nikos, and I take a sip, letting the cool liquid ease some of the tension in my throat. "What makes you think I need a distraction?"
"You've been sitting here for twenty minutes staring at the sunset, all alone, and you look like you're in your head.
" He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, his eyes warm.
"Either you're running from something, or you're trying very hard not to think about something.
Either way, I thought I could help. I'm an excellent distraction. "
I should be offended by his presumption. I should tell him he's wrong, that I'm perfectly fine, that I don't need help from some random Greek man who thinks a few compliments will get him into my bed. If I were in New York, I probably would.
But I'm on vacation, and I want to get laid. And the attention feels good. Flattering. Normal. Less intense than the stranger, but that's probably a good thing. Too much of that might kill me.
"Maybe I am," I admit, taking another sip of wine. "Running from something, I mean."
"Boyfriend?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Husband?"
"God, no." I wince, taking a bigger sip.
"Family?"
I hesitate, then nod. "Something like that."
He doesn't press for details, which I appreciate.
Instead, he shifts the conversation to lighter topics—how long I've been in Santorini, where I'm staying, what I think of the island so far.
He's easy to talk to, his questions just personal enough to feel like he's at least a little interested in me without being invasive, and I find myself relaxing despite the knot of anxiety still lodged in my chest.
He tells me he grew up here, that he works at his family's restaurant during the summer, and spends winters in Athens.
He asks if I've tried the local specialties yet, recommends a few places I should visit before I leave.
His hand brushes mine when he reaches for his beer, and the touch lingers just a moment too long to be accidental. I don't pull away.
The wine is going to my head, warm and pleasant, dulling the sharp edges of my anxiety.
The sky is darkening now, the sunset fading into twilight, and the strings of lights overhead glow brighter.
Music drifts from somewhere inside the bar, the kind of song that makes you want to dance.
I sway in my seat to it, feeling my inhibitions and worries drift away, exactly like I hoped. Like I wanted.
Nikos leans forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you're too beautiful to be sitting here looking so anxious." His hand moves to my arm, his fingers warm against my skin. "You should be dancing. Laughing. Enjoying yourself."
The touch sends a small shiver through me, but it's not the electric jolt I felt with the stranger from Ibiza. It's pleasant. Safe. Forgettable. But I could use forgettable right now.
"Maybe you're right," I say, and his smile widens.
"I'm always right." He leans in closer, his voice dropping.
"Stay here with me tonight. Let me show you the real Santorini.
Not the tourist version—the places locals go.
I promise you won't regret it. Maybe we'll make a day of it tomorrow, another night, if you enjoy yourself.
And then you can go on your way with the real local… flavor." He winks charmingly at me.
His confidence is almost endearing. He's so sure of himself, so certain that I'll say yes, and I think I want to. I want to let this charming stranger distract me from the anxiety and confusion and fear that's been eating at me since I left Ibiza. But before I can answer, something shifts.
The air changes. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. And I know—with a certainty that makes my stomach drop—that I'm being watched.
I turn my head slowly, scanning the bar, and my heart stops.
He's here. The stranger from Ibiza. The man whose name I don't know, whose hands were around my throat, who made me come harder than anyone else ever has before. And he shouldn't be here.
Why the fuck is he here?
He's standing at the far end of the patio, partially hidden in the shadows near the entrance, and his eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes my blood run cold. He's not approaching. Just watching. And the look on his face is terrifying.
It's not desire or confusion or even anger. It's something darker. Something predatory. It's that look I saw for a split second when he first wrapped his hands around my throat, that look that said he wanted me dead, that didn't make any fucking sense.
And now, it makes even less sense… and feels a hundred times more terrifying.
My breath catches in my throat. My hands start to shake. What is he doing here?
Nikos is still talking, his hand still on my arm, but I can't hear him anymore. I can't focus on anything except the man across the bar who's staring at me like I'm prey.
And then he moves.
He crosses the patio in long, purposeful strides, his expression cold and lethal, and I realize with a jolt of pure terror that he's coming for me.
"Isabelle?" Nikos's voice cuts through the fog of panic. "Are you okay? You look—"
He doesn't get to finish. The stranger reaches our table, and his hand shoots out, grabbing Nikos by the throat and slamming him back against the wall so hard the impact rattles the glasses on nearby tables.
I scream. Or I try to, at least. The sound gets stuck in my throat, choked off by shock and horror as I watch Nikos's face turn red, his hands clawing at the stranger's wrist, as his eyes go wide with terror and confusion.
"What the fuck—" Nikos gasps raggedly, but the stranger's grip tightens.
"She's not interested," the stranger says, his voice low and cold and utterly devoid of emotion. His accent—Spanish, I finally realize, or maybe Portuguese—makes the words sound even more dangerous.
"Let him go!" I finally find my voice, standing so fast my chair tips backward. "What the fuck are you doing?"
The stranger doesn't look at me. His eyes are locked on Nikos, his expression blank, and I watch in horror as his fingers tighten around Nikos's throat. Nikos's face is turning purple now. His struggles are getting weaker.
He's going to kill him. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.