“Totally fine, Pippi,” was his go-to answer, and she’d trusted him. He was always quick to cut off conversation about anything other than the mundane with a kiss, and she hadn’t questioned it because who would question kissing that man, especially when just his kiss could drive her nearly insane? If something was up, he would tell her, right?
But something was up, and he’d waited until now to tell her. What if this whole thing with Duncan and Elaina was giving him second thoughts about their relationship? What if he’d been afraid to tell her before the trip? Breaking bad news to her while she was so far from home—so far from safety—wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was that after a promise to always, always lay their cards out on the table, Griffin had been holding back.
She looked around the crowded room, at the friends and family of the bride and groom—Duncan’s relatives included—laughing and enjoying one another’s company. She thought about Miles with Alex, and Griffin on a plane—and all the hope that had filled her evaporated as quickly as it had come.
In a sea of people, Maggie felt utterly alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Miles
It wasn’t as if Miles was a stranger to a kitchen. He worked in one, too. He was just better versed in beverages, pastries, and the occasional panini than he was in full gourmet meals.
Alex dried his hands after giving them a good scrub in the sink and then busied himself juicing lemons and cracking eggs into a bowl at a stainless-steel island. Miles strolled toward him, observing his surroundings as if they were exhibits in the Louvre.
“You don’t have to be afraid of touching anything,” Alex said, side-eyeing him from where he beat the lemons and eggs together. He poured the mixture into a large pot, giving whatever else was in there with it a few lazy stirs.
Miles released his hands from the front pocket of his jeans and inched closer, a finger poised to taste.
“After you wash,” Alex said, stopping him short, and Miles bit back a smile.
He unzipped his jacket. “Where should I…”
“There’s a closet over there.” Alex nodded to a small alcove off to his left, just past what looked like a walk-in cooler. Miles followed his gaze and rid himself of both his jacket and hoodie, leaving him in only his T-shirt and jeans.
“There are clean aprons on the other side,” Alex continued, and because his back was still to him, Miles let himself smile this time. He could tell from Alex’s tone—not a command yet not nearly playful—that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. But this wasn’t just some quick tour and see ya later. Alex was asking him to stay, and by pulling the crisp white cotton from the hanger, Miles was accepting the invitation.
He ambled to the sink first, cleansing his hands like he was a surgeon, soaping up to his elbows and rinsing with water hot enough to turn his skin pink. When he finished, he used the same towel he saw Alex use to dry off.
Alex was juicing another lemon, the rind of the fruit in his palm as he pressed it over the raised peak of the appliance. He wore a short-sleeved black chef’s jacket over dark jeans, the muscles in his forearms tensing as he wrung the lemon to nothing but pulp.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” Miles started, then rolled his eyes at himself. Judgmental was so not his usual M.O., but then again, nothing about today was usual. For the guy who put fun above all else, he sure was doing a bang-up job of making this encounter everything but. Self-sabotage also wasn’t his way, but there were these…feelings…seeping out from the places he had buried them, and they were making him do and say things so utterly unlike him. It would take everything in his power to turn off his psychoanalytical tendencies and to just be. Three days. He could handle being in the vicinity of this man for three days before escaping back to Minnesota’s sub-zero temps and its complete and utter un-Greeceness.
Alex kept his eyes on the other half of the lemon he was pulverizing, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“I don’t smoke. Not habitually.” He ground the rind into the juicer, even after nothing was left to juice. “But when I need to clear my head?” He shrugged. “We all have vices. Mine is the occasional tsigaro.”
Miles pressed his hands flat atop the steel island, letting out a long sigh, and Alex finally looked up.
“What?” he asked, and Miles shook his head.
“I don’t like that you just made the word ‘cigarette’ sound sexy.”
Alex grinned. “You seem not to like a lot of things when it comes to me, including me.”
Miles shook his head. “You’re twisting my words,” he told him. “I said I didn’t want to like you.”
But he did. Every second he was in Alex’s presence, that feeling he didn’t want to have, it only grew stronger.
Alex turned back to what he was doing and added the juice he’d just squeezed into the steaming pot on the stove. But he was smiling as he did.
Miles watched the tendons in Alex’s neck tighten and release, and he allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. This guy may have gotten to him, but shit if Miles hadn’t gotten to Alex, too. So what now?
“Can I help?” he asked.
Alex nodded. “Come stir.”
He approached with caution, relaxing when he saw the tension leave Alex’s shoulders.
“Egg lemon soup. It needs to mix in and heat through,” he said. “Then we will chill it until the reception tomorrow.”
Alex grabbed Miles’s hand and placed it around the wand of the spoon. “Just like that—long, slow circles. Entaxei?”
Miles furrowed his brow.
“Sorry,” Alex said, letting go of the spoon and leaving it to his assistant. “It means okay. When I’m here, in Greece, I slip back into the language.”
“It’s nice,” Miles admitted. “The words—even when you’re angry—I like the sound of them coming from your lips.”
He could flirt comfortably now. Both men had admitted their attraction and that there were zero expectations from either of them. So why not see where the rest of the day went? Sure, there was a part of him that knew he was approaching dangerous territory, but didn’t he enjoy a little risk, especially when there was the safety net of a flight back to the States at the end of the weekend? “Does it happen in the States, too? The Greek and English together?”
Alex shook his head. “When I’m here I speak only Greek. But you”—he nodded toward the interior of the restaurant—“and all the Scots and the other Americans? It puts my head in two different places. Does that make sense?”
Yeah. Miles knew the feeling of being in two head spaces at once, the duality of wanting to both lay this guy out on that stainless-steel island and then walk away without a second thought, safe and secure, while also wanting this beautiful man to keep talking, keep revealing himself even though every word Alex spoke brought Miles closer to the danger zone. To caring. To wondering about possibilities beyond this weekend.
But he wasn’t about to say any of that, so he just kept it simple.
“It makes sense.”
Miles concentrated on the rhythm of the spoon moving against the thick soup, the savory aroma making his mouth water. Alex left him to it and backed away toward the cooler, unbuttoning the chef’s shirt to reveal a fitted white tank top underneath.
“Thanks for your help,” Alex said. “That was the last thing I had to prepare before this evening, so I’m going to take off.”
Miles’s eyes widened, and Alex barked out a laugh, the tank rising from his jeans and revealing a dark trail that Miles wanted to follow—just after he told this guy to fuck off.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I’m an asshole, but I have to say…it was worth it.”
Miles wanted to fling a spoonful of whatever this soup was at that smug grin on Alex’s face, but the liquid was hot enough to burn, and he couldn’t justify scarring that face, even if it was mocking him. Instead he scraped the spoon clean and laid it on the island, brushing off his hand on his still-pristine apron.