Vacation with the Alien Gladiator (Monsters and Margaritas #1)

Chapter 1 Wrong Place, Right Time

Wrong Place, Right Time

Edith

The taxi driver looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Eirene Estate?” He gestures at the pristine white villa perched on the cliff like a crown. “You sure, miss?”

My phone shows the same booking confirmation it’s shown me the last four times I’ve checked.

Eirene Estate, Santorini. Sea view suite.

€500/week. Which seemed like an insane deal when I booked it, but I’d assumed “estate” was one of those aspirational marketing terms. Like how studio apartments get called “cozy” and windowless basements become “garden level.” This is the kind of place that has a waiting list and a dress code for breakfast.

“Yeah,” I say, because I’ve already paid and my savings account is whimpering. “I’m sure.”

He shrugs and pulls up the winding drive.

Through the window, Santorini hits like a slap of color after months of Portland gray: white buildings tumbling down rust-red cliffs, blue-domed churches, the Aegean so blue it looks fake.

The ferry from Athens this morning had been packed with tourists, but up here, it’s sun-bleached stone and flowering vines and a quiet so thick the engine sounds obscene.

The taxi stops. The meter reads an amount that makes me wince.

“You want I should wait?” he asks, eyeing the villa. “In case there is... mistake?”

God. Even he can tell I don’t belong here.

“No,” I say, and tip him more than I should because I’m American and uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

He leaves me standing at an entrance that looks like it costs more than my entire apartment.

A stone path lined with terracotta pots overflowing with bougainvillea so pink it hurts to look at, brass fixtures that actually shine, and beyond them, a glimpse of an infinity pool that appears to pour directly into the sky.

Every instinct says leave. But my feet ache, and the sun is warm on my shoulders in a way that Portland never manages, and before I can talk myself out of it, the door opens.

The man standing there makes me lose my train of thought entirely, which is inconvenient because I’d been rehearsing a very reasonable speech about booking errors.

Tall; six-three at least, with Mediterranean bronze skin and dark hair that’s slightly too long.

A white linen shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to forearms corded with muscle.

Scarred forearms. Not the neat surgical kind.

The kind that come from surviving things that should have killed you.

Those scars are what snag my attention and hold it.

Everything else about him is curated, polished, resort-owner appropriate.

The scars don’t belong. His eyes don’t either: deep amber-brown, almost unnatural in their intensity, set in a face that’s more arresting than handsome.

The kind of face that makes you forget what you came here to say.

Which. Already happened.

“Can I help you?” His voice has a low, rough warmth to it. Accented, but not quite Greek, not quite anything I can place.

My brain, uselessly: Oh no.

My mouth, somehow functional: “I have a reservation? Edith Kendrick?”

He goes very still. Subtle; most people wouldn’t catch it.

But I’ve spent six years writing training manuals on proper laboratory protocol, which means I’ve spent six years watching people lie about whether they followed proper laboratory protocol.

I know what a micro-expression looks like, and this man just had several.

“A reservation,” he repeats slowly. “Here.”

“Yes?” My phone is already out, hands steady through sheer force of will.

“I booked through . See? Eirene Estate, sea view suite, one week, €500—” The number hangs in the air between us.

Absurd, given the designer minimalism visible through the doorway behind him.

“This is Eirene Estate, right? Not some other Eirene that’s significantly less expensive? ”

His expression shifts. Surprise, maybe. Or calculation. Gone before I can catalog it. “May I see?”

He holds out his hand. Big, scarred across the knuckles. When I pass him my phone our fingers brush, and heat rolls up my arm like a current. Ninety degrees outside and this man runs hotter.

He examines the screen. His jaw tightens. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows.

“There’s been a mistake,” he says finally.

“Right. Okay. I figured.” Disappointment tastes like salt air and crushed hopes. “I’ll just find somewhere else. Do you know any good budget places nearby? Within walking distance would be great, because I already spent too much on that taxi—”

“Please.” He cuts me off, but gently. “Let me check our system. There may be arrangements we can make.” He steps aside. “Come in. Have a seat in the shade. Can I offer you champagne while I sort this out?”

Every sensible impulse I have says no.

“Champagne sounds amazing,” I hear myself say.

His mouth hooks up at one corner. “Good.”

Inside is catastrophically beautiful. White marble and clean lines and space; god, so much space. The kind of space that whispers wealth in a language only rich people speak fluently. My studio apartment back in Portland would fit in the entryway with room to spare.

A woman appears from a side hallway: tall, dark-skinned, gorgeous in that effortless way that makes me acutely aware of my rumpled travel clothes and the sweat stain I’m pretending doesn’t exist. Linen pants, silk tank top, the kind of posture that usually comes with a ballet background.

Except the way she moves is more fluid than that.

Too fluid. Like a dancer who’s forgotten they’re not performing.

“Boss,” she says, and her accent is distinctly Australian. “We have a—”

“Yes.” He cuts her off with a look. “Thysa, would you show Ms. Kendrick to the main terrace? I need to make some calls.”

“Right-o.” She grins at me, and it transforms her face from intimidatingly beautiful to conspiratorially warm. “Come on, love. Let’s get you sorted. He’s a bit intense but he’s harmless. Well. Mostly harmless.”

“I can hear you,” he says without turning around.

“That’s the idea, boss.”

She guides me through the villa, past a kitchen that belongs in a magazine spread, down a hallway lined with art that’s either very good prints or very expensive originals, and out onto a terrace that stops me dead.

“Christ,” I breathe.

“Yeah.” Thysa sounds amused. “Gets everyone like that the first time.”

The terrace is cantilevered over the cliff, all white stone and blue cushions and flowering vines climbing a pergola overhead.

The infinity pool stretches toward the horizon, its far edge dissolving into the Aegean so perfectly there’s no seam between water and sky.

Beyond, the caldera opens up like a god scooped out the earth with both hands: rust-red cliffs, scattered islands, that impossible blue I’ve only ever seen in heavily filtered Instagram posts.

Except there’s no filter. The light is just like this.

“Sit,” Thysa says, nudging me toward a lounger. “Before you pass out. You’re looking a bit gobsmacked.”

The cushion is firm enough to support, soft enough to sink into.

The marble table beside me radiates coolness despite the heat.

Within minutes, a tray appears: champagne beading with condensation, a plate of mezze arranged like art, and bread still warm from the oven that smells like rosemary and olive oil and every good thing.

“Right.” Thysa drops into the chair beside me. “So you’re the booking mystery.”

“That’s me. Mystery woman who can’t afford this place.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Boss is already sorting it.” She waves a hand. “Between you and me? He’s got a soft spot for damsels in distress.”

“I’m not—” The protest dies before it lands.

Because actually, I kind of am. Corporate whistleblower hiding from pharmaceutical executives on a Greek island, hoping my lawyer can file the case before the company files me under “Permanently Silenced.” Distressed is a generous word for it. “Never mind.”

Thysa’s eyes sharpen. “You running from something?”

“Isn’t everyone on vacation?”

“Fair point.” She studies me for a beat, then apparently decides I’m not a threat. “Well, you landed in the right place. Boss takes his hospitality very seriously. And his privacy. You won’t be bothered here.”

Through the windows, I can see him, the boss whose name I still don’t know, pacing while he talks on the phone.

A hand raking through his hair. Shoulders tight.

Jaw working. He gestures sharply at something, then forces himself still with visible effort, like a man accustomed to controlling every muscle he owns.

He catches me watching. Our eyes meet through the glass, and for a second, the whole bright sprawling terrace narrows to the width of his gaze.

“Boss man’s name is Kaz, by the way,” Thysa says, far too casually. “Short for something Greek I can never pronounce. He owns the place. Built it from scratch, actually. Real hands-on type.”

Those hands, through the window. Big. Scarred. Wrapped around the phone like he’s trying not to crush it.

Hands-on. Right.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, mostly to stop staring.

“Three years. Best gig I’ve ever had. Pays well, boss is decent, and the view’s not bad.” She winks. “The ocean’s pretty nice too.”

A laugh escapes before I can catch it. “Does he usually get this stressed about booking errors?”

“Oh, he’s not stressed about the booking error, love.” She’s grinning now, watching him through the window with obvious amusement. “He’s stressed about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Let’s just say...” She leans back in her chair, looking extremely pleased with herself. “This is going to be fun.”

“What? What’s fun?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” She’s already standing. “More champagne?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“You absolutely should. You’re on vacation. Drink the expensive champagne. Eat the fancy cheese. Enjoy yourself. God knows you look like you need it.”