Chapter Nine
Leo held the door for me, his hand resting on the small of my back, a touch both gentle and intentional.
As we walked through the dark, narrow hallway of the transformed club, the space unfolded into something almost unrecognizable.
It looked more like the Plaka in Athens than a New York discotheque, with whitewashed walls, flickering lanterns, and vines of bougainvillea hanging from archways.
A shimmering, mirrored ball spun overhead, casting flashes of silver and gold across the dance floor, reflecting off sequined-clad revelers who swirled and swayed like something out of a dream.
Inside, the lights were bright, almost blinding.
But through the haze of the smoke machines, there was Leo.
Steady beside me in the sea of chaos, as if he belonged here.
As if this night were just another chapter in the story of us.
The one where I’d chosen to meet him this past Christmas in Paris.
A bell-bottom-clad server swung by, holding a tray of Voulez-Vous Vodka Sours, and Leo grabbed two without hesitation. “For the lady,” he said with an exaggerated flourish.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re really leaning into this, huh?”
He shrugged, handing me the drink with a grin that was as knowing as the one before. “You once said that for you, Mamma Mia! was ‘the cinematic equivalent of a warm hug.’ And I figured, after brunch with your mom, you could use one.”
I blinked, taken aback. I had said that exact thing after seeing the movie years ago, and every time I fired it up on Netflix since.
How did he know that? The love spell’s meddling now hummed at the back of my mind, like a tune I couldn’t shake, tangled with the pulsing beats of ABBA echoing through the venue.
We were led to a table near the dance floor as a cast of actors in spandex and platform heels wove through the crowd, belting out “Super Trouper” like they were auditioning for Broadway.
The waiter appeared, as though summoned by the absurdity of it all, carrying two plates of something suspiciously orange and cheesy. “Here we are! Two orders of Take a Chance on Me Mac and Cheese. The table next to you sent them over. Said something about a bet?”
I whipped around to see a group of women, probably in their fifties, waggling their eyebrows at me from across the room.
“You’re the radio girl! Right? Elliot West?
” one of them called out. “We heard yesterday’s show all about your Valentine’s Day cynicism!
So we just wanted to see if you’re actually having fun or what? ”
Leo laughed, leaning in toward me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, she’s having fun. She just may not be ready to admit it yet.”
But here’s the thing . . . I was having fun.
And it wasn’t just because of the ridiculousness of it all.
Not because of the sparkles, or the costumes, or the music that made it feel so right.
It was the way Leo effortlessly disarmed me, like he knew exactly how to tug at my heartstrings without pulling too hard.
The way he read me, like sheet music, like some melody I couldn’t quite name but couldn’t help but hum along to.
He didn’t pressure me to feel a certain way, but somehow, he made me want to jump in with both feet.
And that was a dangerous kind of charm.
I didn’t fully understand it until that first night in Little Venice in Mykonos, when after my declaration about not believing in love, Leo led me through the labyrinth of small streets that opened up to the waterfront.
The Aegean Sea lapped against stone foundations, where people strolled past holding hands.
It was there that I first realized just how easily he could pull me in.
We found a small taverna where we picked our fish from a display, and the octopus was so fresh it looked like it had just crawled out of the ocean. The waiter recommended a bottle of Santorini Assyrtiko, explaining that its crisp, citrusy notes would pair perfectly with the seafood.
Tourists and locals crowded the tables, their voices blending into a melodic hum of Greek, Italian, French, and scattered bits of English, floating on the very breeze that seemed to be turning the iconic windmills in the distance.
The air was rich with the scents of grilled cod, briny feta, and fresh oregano, mingling with the sharp tang of ouzo and the honeyed sweetness of baklava cooling on trays nearby.
Little Venice at night was an intoxicating collision of chaos and charm. And as I gazed out at the dark horizon, where the lights danced across the water like scattered stars, I felt caught in the space between reality and something far more enchanting.
We settled in, and I became aware of the way the humidity had brought out the texture in my hair, now curling freely around my face, wild and untamed. Leo reached over, his hands brushing my cheek as he tucked a strand behind my ear.
“It’s really beautiful. Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, the warmth of his fingers like fire against my skin.
“You’re really beautiful.”
I shook my head. “I keep telling you, you don’t have to worry about the woo.”
“Is that like a saying from your radio show or something?”
“No, but maybe it should be,” I said, pulling out my phone to quickly add it to my Notes app.
He scrubbed his chin, studying me. “I can’t quite work you out.”
“Really? And I thought I’d made myself pretty clear,” I replied playfully.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he responded, “That’s right, the girl who categorically doesn’t believe in love.
” He sipped the wine and I watched the golden liquid touch his lips before it seemed to drip lazily down the sides of the glass.
“Have you ever heard the Greek myth of Atalanta and Meleager?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Atalanta was a fierce huntress who swore she’d never marry. The only way she’d even consider a suitor was if he could beat her in a footrace.”
“A race? That’s a bit extreme . . . and random.”
“It was. And she was faster than anyone. No man had ever beaten her. But Meleager . . . he didn’t try to outrun her.” Leo met my eyes. “He ran with her. He kept pace, just to be near her, to understand her. He wasn’t trying to win. He just wanted to show her he was there, right alongside her.”
Something about the way he told the story made my pulse quicken. But I refused to get caught up in the moment. “If you think I’m going to fall for you by the end of this dinner, then you’re a bigger hopeless romantic than I feared.”
“Of course not by the end of this dinner, don’t be silly.” He casually plucked a fat green olive from the small ceramic bowl in the middle of the table and popped it into his mouth. “How much longer are you staying in Mykonos?”
I rested my chin in my hands. “Another week and a half or so. Why? What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Like I told you, I have the good fortune of being able to work from practically anywhere. So what if I extended my trip too?”
“You know I’m not going to fall any more in love with you over the next seven to ten days, right?
In fact, it’s actually more likely that somewhere in that time we realize we have nothing in common, aren’t even remotely attracted to each other, and are now trapped in this ridiculous trip, counting down the days till it’s over. ”
“Well, despite that glowing review, I still think it’s a great idea.
So what does that say about me? Look, I didn’t have a lot of time for sightseeing while on our stag do, but I would like to explore the island a bit.
And I’d like to do it with you.” He paused a beat, rolling the olive pit on his tongue, and sighed.
“You might be right, and this could just be a fleeting moment on a rock in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. But what if it’s more?
Elliot, I’m not asking you to slow down, I’m just asking if I can run alongside you. ”
For the next week and a half, he did.
Together, we snorkeled at a secret swimming spot near Fokos Beach, enjoyed a private wine tasting in Ano Mera, explored the lighthouse at Armenistis, wandered through hidden alleyways in Mykonos Town searching for the best loukoumades, and watched the sunset most nights from a quiet, tucked-away cove only the locals seemed to know about.
Throughout it all, I did my best to tell myself I wasn’t falling for him.
It was easy, at first, to just dismiss it as nothing more than a summer indulgence with a very clear, very imminent expiration date.
But with each passing day, each heated glance, each lingering touch, a chink in my armor let in just enough light to make me wonder whether I was fighting a battle I’d already lost.
And clearly I had lost, because here I was, sitting across from him in the electric hum of Studio 54. Only now, Leo wasn’t just a passing thrill. Apparently, he was my actual boyfriend.
The music changed to the rhythmic melody of “Dancing Queen,” and without hesitation, I let him pull me to my feet. My heart was beating too loudly, but he was already twirling me into the flashing lights, letting loose like it was the easiest thing in the world.
I thought for sure I’d stumble, but he was there, steady, matching every move, every word of the song. His voice, off-key and loud just as he’d promised, was the only thing I could hear as we sang together, laughing and spinning, unembarrassed and free.
By the time we collapsed back into our seats, breathless, hoarse, and desperately in need of some water, the stage had shifted. In the center of the room, a spotlight captured the actress playing Sophie as she began singing “Lay All Your Love on Me” with the actor playing Sky.
“That scene looks eerily familiar,” Leo remarked.
I turned to him. “What do you mean?”