“Niko?!” Wynter gasps. “What are you doing?”
I turn toward her. “Omorfiá mou.I was explaining to your parents I want?—”
“Stop!” a familiar voice calls.
My mother approaches from the opposite side, laughing—not politely, but full-bodied and delighted. “Oh, Niko, this is not how I would have planned it, but it is absolutely you.”
“Wynter,” I say, “this is my mother, father, sister and brother. I had no idea they were coming.”
Wynter points. “Wait—she’sthe one looking at the restaurant space.”
My mother beams. “Yes, dear. This town is lovely. We’re opening a new family-friendly chain, affordable for everyone. With the lodge nearby, it’s perfect. Two empty building beside each other? Excellent footprint. And since Nico says he’s moving here, we’ll want to visit.”
“You have diners?” Wynter’s mother says, her tone filled with distain. “The town doesn’t need another diner.”
“Mother!”
I touch Wynter’s hip gently, and whisper in her ear, “Stay calm.”
My mother turns to Mrs. Frost with a cool smile.
“We do food. Everyone eats—rich, poor, fancy, simple. Two rules we follow. If we overcook, leftovers go to homeless shelters and the elderly. No waste.” She winks at Wynter. “Our chefs ‘overcook’ a lot in winter.”
Mrs. Frost lifts her chin. “Is your little chain local?”
“My dear,” my mother says, “we have restaurants in Miami, New York, Los Angeles, Denver, San Francisco. And Dallas. Perhaps you’ve heard of us—Athena Elena.”
Mrs. Frost pales. “Athena Elena. I-I know the one in New York and Denver. They’re Michelin rated.”
My mother shrugs. “They like our food.”
Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a velvet box and hands it to me. “Nico, I had a feeling. I brought yourgiagiá’sring. Do it properly.”
Someone blows a bull horn. The crown falls silent.
I open the box, drop to one knee, and take Wynter’s hand. “I, Andreas Nikolai Vasiliou want you, Wynter Rose Frost, to marry me. To stay by my side so we can decorate the VA together every year and spend every Christmas surrounded by friends, family and joy.”
She stares down at me, eyes shimmering. “Do you know how to run a plow in snow season?” she asks.
“Yes,omorfiá mou.”
“Will you decorate the tree and hang lights every year?”
“Yes,thisavre mou.”
“This is a permanent position. You can’t quit or retire.”
“Yes,agápi mou.”
“And you’ll teach me Greek so I will know if you are loving me or cursing me.”
“Always love,agápi mou,”I promise.
She holds out a trembling hand. I slide the ring on her finger.
“S'agapo,” she whispers.
Three months later.
