Chapter 1 Wrong Place, Right Time #2
She disappears before I can protest. Alone with the view and the mezze and the creeping certainty that I’ve stumbled into something I don’t understand.
The champagne is cold and dry and tastes like celebrations I’ve never been invited to. The bread is so good it makes my eyes sting, which is embarrassing, but I’m tired and sunstruck and apparently one warm roll with sea salt is all it takes to crack me open right now.
My eyes close. Sun bakes into my skin. The breeze dries the last of the travel sweat.
For one suspended minute, I let myself pretend this is my life.
That I’m the kind of woman who stays in places like this.
That I’m not hiding from people who would rather I stopped breathing.
That the most dangerous thing about this vacation will be the calorie count.
Time drifts. The sun tracks across the sky. Thysa reappears with more champagne, more food, casual conversation about Santorini’s best beaches and worst tourist traps. Through the windows, Kaz is still on the phone, still tense, occasionally glancing my way like he’s checking I haven’t fled.
Nearly forty minutes pass before he returns.
“Ms. Kendrick?”
My head snaps up. Kaz stands at the terrace entrance, backlit by the villa’s interior so I can’t quite read his expression. He’s changed shirts. Still linen. Still white. Still open at the collar in a way that suggests he either doesn’t own buttons or doesn’t believe in them.
“Please, call me Edith.” Crumbs scatter from my lap as I stand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to camp out on your terrace—”
“You’re a guest.” He moves closer, and his scent arrives before he does: cedar and sea salt and something warmer underneath, spiced and foreign, something my hindbrain catalogs as important before my conscious mind can catch up.
“I apologize for the wait. I’ve reviewed your booking, and you’re correct.
There was an error with the reservation system. ”
My stomach drops. “So I can’t stay.”
“You can.” He says it firmly, like he’s overruling my disappointment through sheer force of will. “We’re fully booked this week, but I can make arrangements.”
“Oh god, please don’t kick someone else out for me. That’s not necessary. I can find somewhere—”
“My personal villa is available.” He gestures down the path. “Separate from the main resort. Complete privacy. Ocean view. It’s yours for the week.”
The words take a second to arrange themselves into sense. “I can’t take your room.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s your room.”
“And I’m offering it to you.” That half-smile again. “I have a perfectly acceptable suite in the staff quarters. It’s not a hardship.”
“But—”
“Please.” He steps closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and the height difference registers in my body before my brain can process it: the sheer physical scale of him, the heat radiating off his skin like pavement in July.
“It’s the least I can do to rectify this error.
And honestly?” His voice drops, lower, quieter. “I think you need this vacation.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You look...” He pauses, choosing words with the care of a man who knows the wrong ones will cost him. “Like someone who’s been running for a long time. This is a good place to stop.”
The accuracy of it lands like a fist. My jaw clenches against the sudden pressure behind my eyes. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I’d like to. If you stay.”
Late-afternoon light turns everything gold: his skin, the stone, the water beyond. The breeze carries jasmine and salt. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes ring softly, a sound like small bells arguing.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll stay.”
His smile is small but it reaches his eyes. “Good. Come. Let me show you the villa.”
He leads me down a private path I hadn’t noticed before, stone steps winding through bougainvillea so vivid it looks photoshopped.
He walks slightly ahead, keeping himself between me and the cliff edge.
Probably good hospitality training. Probably instinct.
The warmth that curls through my chest doesn’t care which one it is.
The villa sits at the far end of the property, tucked into the cliff face like a secret. White walls, blue shutters, a terrace jutting out over the caldera with views that make my ribs ache.
He opens the door, and his scent rolls out, concentrated, lived-in: that cedar and spice and warmth that belongs in a candle called something like “Forbidden Sin” or “Masculine Regret.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
The space is open and airy: white silk curtains billowing in the breeze, a canopy bed piled with pillows, a bathroom visible through an archway with a soaking tub and separate shower.
But it’s not sterile. This is lived-in. Personal.
Books stacked on the nightstand, thick paperbacks with cracked spines, titles in languages I don’t recognize.
A knife block in the kitchen that’s seen serious action, herbs growing in terracotta pots on the windowsill, a coffee mug still half-full on the counter like he walked out mid-morning and never came back.
And through the glass doors, an outdoor shower open to the sky and the sea. Completely private. Absolutely indecent.
“Will this do?” he asks, and there’s amusement in his voice.
“This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”
He moves past me to set my bag on the bench by the door, and I catch it: a hitch in his stride, his gaze snagging on the side table.
His body goes tense for one second, maybe less.
Then, smooth as silk, he shifts left, blocking my sightline, and his hand darts out to palm something small.
Whatever it is disappears into his pocket before I can get a clear look.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing important.” Too casual. The kind of casual that takes effort. “Just tidying.”
“You don’t have to tidy for me. It’s your space.”
“It’s your space. For the week.” He turns back to me, and his smile is warm, but there’s something guarded behind it now. Something careful, like a door he’s pulled almost shut. “You deserve beautiful things.”
The way he says it, casual, certain, like it’s a fact about the universe rather than wild conjecture about a woman he met an hour ago, makes my breath catch.
“I’ll let you settle in,” he continues. “The kitchen is fully stocked; help yourself to anything. The pool is private. Beach access is through that gate.” He points to a blue door in the terrace wall. “And if you need anything at all—actually, I should give you my direct number.”
He recites it while I fumble my phone out. His hand closes around mine to steady it, correcting my grip on the screen, and the contact lasts two seconds longer than it needs to.
“Kaz,” he says. “In case you were wondering. My name.”
“Kaz.” The syllable sits differently in my mouth than other names do. Sharper. “Thank you. For this. For everything.”
“It’s my pleasure, Edith.” He says my name slowly, deliberately, like he’s testing how it fits.
Then he steps back, putting distance between us with the precision of a man who’s measured exactly how close is too close.
“I’ll leave you to rest. Dinner is at sunset, if you’d like to join me. No pressure.”
He’s at the door when I remember. “Wait. How much do I owe you? For the week?”
He turns back. “You already paid.”
“The €500? That can’t possibly cover—”
“It covers it.” Firm. Final. “Enjoy your vacation, Edith.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in a stranger’s bedroom that smells like him, and I don’t know whether to laugh or call my therapist.
The bed catches me when my knees give out.
Silk sheets. His pillow smells like cedar and spice, and pressing my face into it is a terrible idea that I commit to fully.
Above me, the canopy filters light into something soft and golden, and for a long, stupid moment, I lie there breathing him in like a woman who’s forgotten she has bigger problems than a beautiful man with scarred hands and a voice that makes her chest tight.
Unpack. Shower. Change out of clothes that smell like recycled airplane air and anxiety. That’s the plan. That’s what a sensible person would do.
Instead, I reach for the nightstand, looking for a phone charger or lamp switch, and the drawer slides open.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, is a blade.
Not a kitchen knife. Not a letter opener.
A weapon. The handle is wrapped in leather, worn smooth by use, stained dark near the hilt in a way that looks like old blood.
The blade is maybe ten inches long, curved slightly, with inscriptions etched into the metal by hand.
By someone who knew what they were doing. And someone who used it.
“What the hell did I just walk into?” I ask the empty room.
The empty room, predictably, doesn’t answer. But somewhere on the terrace, wind chimes ring, and the Aegean crashes against stone, and the sun pours gold over everything like a blessing or a warning.