"Of course," I say, rolling my eyes good-naturedly. "I should have known. Nothing is ever straightforward with you, is it?"
"Where's the fun in straightforward?" She winks before calling back, "I'm coming!”
I trail behind, curious, and burst out laughing as I enter the kitchen. Two delivery men are unloading crates of food—olives, lemons, feta cheese, yogurt, honey, oregano and what looks like enough filo pastry to line the driveway.
“Is your mother planning to open a taverna?” I ask as Belle begins directing the unpacking.
Athena looks over the haul with satisfaction. “My mother would never believe I’m living somewhere withoutproper Greek staples.” She stops Belle when she’s about to store the dry ingredients. “Just leave everything on the counter. I’ll put it away myself so I can find it.”
Another assistant appears with jars of olives and Athena arranges them neatly in my cupboard. “These are specially imported from Kalamata,” she explains, handling them like precious artifacts. “At least we didn’t have to empty your cupboards first. Coffee, tea, sugar, peanut butter, and—” she pulls out a package, examining the date “—pasta that expired eight months ago.” She turns to me with a mix of amusement and concern. “It’s sad, really. Don’t you ever cook for yourself?”
“No.” I shrug. “I order in. Or I eat at the office.” The truth is, I haven’t eaten a home-cooked meal since Claire died. She was the one who loved spending evenings in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes while I sat at the counter with case files, stealing bites between briefs. I turn to Athena. “Don’t tell meyoucook at home, though. I’d find that hard to believe.”
“Touché, I don’t. But my housekeeper cooks. She alternates between six Greek recipes I gave her. She’s pretty good.” Athena’s face is suddenly serious. “I can’t thank you enough, Ruby. I owe you. Big time. Like, big-big time.”
“You’ve been there for me. I’m glad I can do something in return.” I shoot her a flirtatious grin. “But if you feel like you owe me, I can think of a way or two you can thank me.”
Athena licks her lips and steps closer. She reaches past me for an olive jar, her body pressing against mine for one deliberate moment. I feel her exhale against my neck. When she pulls back, her eyes hold mine with such raw intention that I have to grip the counter to steady myself.
"When all this family chaos is over," she murmurs, "Ihave some new toys at the club that are just begging for a test run. And I think you'd make the perfect volunteer."
Before I can respond to that, a man appears with a clipboard. “Ms. Stavros, we need you to sign for the wine delivery.”
Athena sighs, the spell broken. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”
As she follows him, I lean against the kitchen counter and blow out my cheeks. This constant state of arousal can’t be healthy. Every time she flirts with me, every lingering look sends my body into overdrive.
Tomorrow, I’ll be living in Athena’s house while her family thinks my home is hers. It’s madness, but I don’t mind. I’m looking forward to stepping out of my normal life for a while and getting a break from this house full of memories. And sleeping in her bed.
THIRTY-FOUR
ATHENA
“Where do you keep the garlic press?” Mom’s voice calls out from across Ruby’s kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in preparations for moussaka.
“Just a moment,” I say, opening a drawer that I’m almost certain only contains silverware. I was right. “Let me check the next one.”
I’ve spent the entire afternoon playing a bizarre game of culinary hide-and-seek while trying to maintain the façade that this is actually my home. Opening and closing cabinets I’d barely examined during the rushed move-in, desperately trying to locate cooking implements I’m not even sure Ruby owns.
“Athena, if you tell me again you don’t know where your own kitchen tools are…” Mom shoots me a look over her shoulder. She’s dressed in a navy linen two-piece, covered by a white apron tied neatly around her waist. Despite her doctor’s explicit instructions about her back, she’s wearing high heels that click authoritatively against the tile floor. Sophia Stavros has never believed comfort should come at the expense of style.
“I don’t use it,” I admit, which is at least honest. I finally locate the garlic press in a drawer filled with miscellaneous kitchen gadgets—most of which look unused.
Mom sighs as I hand it to her. “This is exactly why I worry about you. Living on takeout and restaurant food.” She tests the press in her hand with a critical eye. “This hasn’t been used once, has it? Look, it’s still got the manufacturer’s sticker!”
“I eat very well, Mom,” I protest, leaning against the counter. “The Olympus has an excellent Greek restaurant. You’ve been there.”
She scoffs, wielding an eggplant like it’s evidence in a trial. “Restaurant food! Full of butter and salt to mask inferior ingredients.” She begins slicing the eggplant with surgical precision. “When your father and I were first married, I cooked for him every night, even though we had three cooks on staff.”
“Because you enjoyed it,” I remind her.
“Because I loved him,” she corrects, pointing the knife at me for emphasis. “And because I love you and your sister, I cook for you too. Someone has to make sure you eat properly.”
She sets down the knife and reaches for a wooden spoon to stir the simmering sauce. Without warning, she playfully swats my behind as I pass too close to her workspace.
“Mama!” I protest, jumping.
“You’re in my way,” she says with a mischievous smile that takes years off her face. She’s always done this—using wooden spoons or kitchen towels to playfully swat us when we’d sneak tastes before dinner or get underfoot while she cooked.
