Julian tentatively raises a hand. “Actually, we were hoping to honor my grandmother?—”
“Your grandmother?” Aunt Ana interjects. “What was her name?”
“Juliet,” Julian says, stating the obvious. “I was very close to her.”
My mother’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Ju-li-et?” She pronounces each syllable as if testing a questionable food. “I don’t know.”
“It’s French, Mother,” Demetria sighs. “Julian is French.”
“The baby is half-Greek,” my mother counters. “And a Stavros.”
“What about Dimitri for a boy?” Julian’s father suggests, clearly attempting diplomacy. “It’s similar to Demetria and has roots in both cultures.”
“Or Chloe for a girl,” Julian’s mother adds. “After Julian’s aunt. That’s a Greek name, isn’t it?”
“Chloe is acceptable,” my mother concedes as if granting a major diplomatic concession. “But I still think Sophia is better. Six generations of firstborn daughters in my family have been named Sophia.”
“Five,” Aunt Ana corrects. “You’re forgetting that great-aunt Calliope broke the tradition.”
“She did not! Her full name was Sophia Calliope.”
As Aunt Ana and Mom launch into what promises to be a detailed family history debate, Ruby and I back away slowly, collecting our bags without a word. By the time we’re sliding into the back seat of the car, the debate hasevolved into a full-blown argument because I can hear them even at the front of the house.
“They may still be arguing when we land in Vegas,” I say as Nikos pulls away from the villa. “But Demetria will do exactly what she wants anyway.”
SIXTY-ONE
RUBY
Athena sits beside me in the limo, her fingers laced with mine on the leather seat between us. She’s been quiet since our plane landed, perhaps processing everything that’s happened in the whirlwind of the past few days. I understand. She’s come out to not just her staff but her entire family, danced with me at her sister’s wedding, and gained her mother’s tentative acceptance—milestones she never thought possible.
As we turn onto the winding road leading to The Ridges, I squeeze her hand, drawing her attention back to me. “My place or yours?”
She meets my eyes and smiles. “It’s up to you.”
I consider for a moment, though the decision has already made itself. “I prefer your house. Besides, Zeus will be anxious to see you. We can’t leave him alone another night.”
Athena chuckles. “I knew it. You do love him.”
“I never said that,” I protest, but my smile betrays me.
She leans forward to address the driver. “We’ll go to my house,” she says.
I rest my head against Athena’s shoulder, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. “I’ll have to get up earlier tomorrow to swing by my place and change for work.”
“You could always consider bringing some of your clothes over permanently,” Athena suggests casually. “So you don’t have to worry about that anymore. It would be practical.”
I lift my head to study her face, taking in the neutrality of her expression, the way she’s trying to make this sound like a simple logistical matter rather than what it truly is—an invitation to further intertwine our lives. “Sure,” I say with a teasing grin. “Practical.”
We both know what this is. Not just convenience, but a step. A small one, perhaps, but significant, nonetheless.
The car pulls up to Athena’s gate. Home. As the driver retrieves our luggage from the trunk, I turn to Athena. “Are you busy tomorrow? I thought maybe we could have lunch at that new place on Charleston.”
“I can’t do lunch,” she says. “I’m meeting with Zara Nova and her manager. But dinner would be perfect.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Again? If she were queer, I’d be jealous.”
Athena gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, then glances toward the driver who’s taking our suitcases to the front door. She lowers her voice. “Well, about that… Can you swear this stays between us?”
