Chapter 20
Sophie
Dina drove us to a spot on the ragged edge of Vlore, a place that was trending on Instagram with #happening #regret.
It was immediately obvious she didn’t go out much.
The bar pulsed with music, sticky, sunburned tourists still damp from the beach and locals who looked like they’d come for music and stayed for far too many margaritas.
I should’ve known we were doomed the moment we walked in and the hostess squinted at me, then said, “Welcome, kicked-out Spice Girl.”
She wasn’t talking to Dina, but in my frame of mind, I chose to take that as a compliment.
I was wearing three-inch sandals and a white dress with no back and no bra support that—frankly—had no business being legal.
“I can’t breathe,” I hissed, yanking the hem down as we stepped fully inside, past sun-bleached tourists in flip-flops and bikinis tracking sand across the floor.
“If you can’t breathe,” Dina said mildly, “they can’t either.”
“They who?”
She gestured vaguely. “Everyone around us.”
We took up a corner on the long bar, angling our bodies to each other as if to tell everyone to back off. The bartender was quick to show up and take our order, despite several others being ahead of us.
I ordered something called the Euro Crisis—because Dina was my designated driver and also because the irony felt appropriate. She stuck to water.
“So, do you come out much?” I asked, although judging by her eyes darting all around, she did not.
“No, but I’ve heard of this place.”
“From whom?”
“Amir.”
I tilted my head, studying her complexion slightly tinted with blush. She had gorgeous skin and I envied her for being able to conceal her reactions.
“You like him, huh?” I asked slowly. “Are you two dating?”
She stiffened, glancing around. “Don’t ever say that out loud.” Huh? “Do you understand?”
“No, not really,” I admitted. “But okay, I won’t.”
“My family is a bit… They’re sticklers for who I should marry.”
“Ahhh.” The lightbulb came on. “They don’t want you dating a man who works for a criminal.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “No, they don’t want me dating a man who’s wanted by Interpol.”
My mouth parted in shock.
“You’re kidding.” Although, her serious expression told me she wasn’t. I opened my mouth to ask a follow-up question, but she promptly shut me down.
“No, I won’t talk about it and you won’t be repeating this to anyone.”
Okay, then. Maybe Dina was a badass criminal too.
“Your secret, or Amir’s, is safe with me,” I said slowly. “But I can understand your family’s stance.”
She frowned. “You can?”
“Yes. Just think, Dina, he’s wanted by Interpol.”
“They’ll never get him.”
“You’ll never be able to go on a honeymoon outside this country.”
She shrugged. “Albania has all I need. Mountains, sea, lakes, the only man for me. What more could I want?”
She was clearly blind, but a part of me envied her devotion.
“Let’s talk about something else.” I decided it wasn’t the time to harp on things I knew little about. “Tell me what you do for fun. Outside of driving your mafia boss.”
She giggled. “Honestly, not much. I’m working on finishing my archeology degree.”
My eyebrows arched. “Wow, I didn’t see that one coming.”
“It’s unusual, but I love playing in the dirt. And you?”
I tilted my head, wondering if she knew and was just feigning interest.
“I’m an OB-GYN.”
Our drinks arrived and it would seem the waiter decided to go the extra mile because they were in absurd flamingo-shaped glasses—even her water. Either that, or he took pity on my companion for babysitting me.
Once he moved to serve another table, she continued her line of questioning.
“You always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Growing up, I’d set up pretend hospitals with my dolls, and there was always a pregnant one in active labor. I chuckled and shook my head. “I was lucky that my aunt and my cousin recognized it and helped me achieve it.”
“What about your parents?”
“They died when I was young.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
I smiled, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug.
“It’s not a sore subject. It was an accident.” I paused, then added more softly, “My aunt and my cousin, Kristoff, jumped in right away and took me into their home. We were close even before everything happened, so… it didn’t feel like I was being passed around.”
She nodded, understanding settling in her expression. For a moment, neither of us spoke. We both took slow sips of our drinks while the bass thumped through the room, lyrics spilling from the speakers in a language I didn’t recognize.
Another Albanian song, I guessed, even as I found myself wondering when Dua Lipa would come on next. It was only a matter of time.
The silence stretched, comfortable yet somehow loaded.
“Do you like Kian?” she asked casually, as if she were commenting on the soup of the day.
I almost spit out my drink. I swallowed hard, the liquid burning its way down, then said, “How did you go from my family to Kian?”
“He’s my boss, and I’m trying to figure you out.” The explanation made no sense. “I don’t know you. You could be a player.”
“And so could your boss,” I pointed out. “I can assure you, with that body of his, he’s probably gone through more relationships than I would in ten lifetimes.”
“But you threw yourself at him.”
“Huh?”
“In that parking lot.”
“Ah, yes. That was an accident born from my irrational fear of snakes. I saw Kian’s sidekick there, but I didn’t see you.”
She scrunched her eyebrows. “Sidekick?”
“Yes, Kian’s emotional-support pal,” I said, like it was obvious.
She chuckled. “I think I’m going to start calling Amir that.”
“He probably won’t like it.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” She grinned, then took a sip of her water before she asked, “So, you’re not dating anyone back home in the States?” I shook my head. “Have you been on many dates?”
“Okay, Dina,” I started. “I can understand you being protective of your boss, but this line of questioning is going a bit too far.” Then a thought occurred to me and I studied her expression. “Unless it’s your boss you’re in love with?”
She gaped at me, a look of horror on her face.
“I’m not. I’m just curious and don’t want Mr. Cortes to get involved with a blood-sucking”—my eyebrows met my hairline—“gold digger. Well, no, that doesn’t seem right.
You’re a doctor, so you don’t fit the gold-digger profile.
” There had to be logic there, but I didn’t see it. “But are you a blood-sucking woman?”
“I’m not a vampire,” I deadpanned. “And since you’re so adamant about this, and I have some alcohol in my bloodstream, I’ll tell you my first boyfriend was my cousin’s best friend who slept with his now ex-wife.”
“Please tell me that is the plot to some American soap opera and not the truth.”
A shudder rolled down my spine at the memory. “We learned much later on that she’d drugged him, but that’s beside the point. Let me just tell you, it’s brutal out there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people are just weird,” I said, recalling a few instances of terrible dates. “This one guy showed up to a five-star restaurant in flip-flops.”
“What’s wrong with flip-flops in the summer?” Dina questioned, narrowing her eyes at me, then pointing to her own feet.
“Oh, that’s not even the bad part. His feet were wet for whatever reason, so every step he took made this unmistakable farting sound.” She giggled. “I kept snapping my head around like a startled dog, convinced something was behind me.”
“I can see how that would ruin the mood.”
I nodded. “Then another guy… God, just thinking about it makes me want to gag.”
She leaned closer. “You have to tell me.”
“The date was actually going pretty well. At the end of it, he walked me home… I lived in downtown Georgetown in DC.” She waved her hand, clearly not interested in details, and I cut to the chase.
“So, he leaned in and I saw all this buildup on his teeth.” I gagged just thinking about it.
“I pointed it out and the man told me he didn’t believe in toothbrushes. I’ve never run so fast in high heels.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re making that up.”
I shot her a somber look. “Do I look like I am?”
“Not really.” She cackled. “No wonder you think Mr. Cortes is hot.”
“Dina, I don’t just think it. He is hot.” I poked her in the shoulder. “He’s a DILF.”
Her mouth shaped in a silent O. “You Americans and your acronyms.”
“I know. It’s probably not for the best either.”
“It’s not.” The DJ continued blasting Balkan remixes so loud my rib cage vibrated. “Let’s go dance,” she suggested.
“Okay.”
We made our way to the dance floor right as he switched to Dua Lipa, which inadvertently made me think of Kian. Damn him and his criminal ass.
“Oh my God, karaoke!” Dina screamed, spotting the lonely, dust-coated machine abandoned in the corner like a dare. “Let’s do it.”
“I’m a terrible singer,” I said immediately. “And I never know the words.”
“Britney?” she suggested. “Lana Del Rey? Or—”
“No, really, I can’t sing,” I protested. I was not nearly tipsy enough for microphones. “People have claimed that my singing punctures their eardrums.”
Her eyes lit up. “Even better. I’ll look amazing next to you.”
I winced. “Wow. Thank you. Now I definitely want to do it.”
She grabbed my hand and dragged me across the floor before my brain could stage a protest.
“Dina, I really—”
“Britney Spears is a universal language,” she cut in. “Everyone knows the words.”
“Everyone but me,” I muttered. “God, I’m not brave enough for this.”
“We’re doing ‘Toxic,’” she announced, grinning widely.
The intro notes hit and I ended up onstage with my new best friend, half belting lyrics, half falling out of my heels, while Dina sang and danced like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.
I functioned mostly as her backup-singer-slash-dancer, nearly toppling off the stage several times in my clumsiness.
We crushed it. Sort of.
The crowd looked petrified, or maybe they were simply too flabbergasted to react.