I propped my elbows on the counter, placed one hand on top of the other, and rested my chin on top. Then I batted my eyelashes and gazed adoringly.
Of course, when I leaned forward, my breasts plopped onto the counter, turning my heart-eyes into a pumped-up case of TOTT: Tits On The Table.
Alex’s jaw dropped. Olive oil drizzled down his arm and made a small puddle on the counter.
“Hey.” I snapped my fingers, prompting him to pull his eye sockets out of my cleavage.
“Wowzah. You make killer heart-eyes.” He looked at the oil can and made its spout nod in agreement. “Killer, dude.”
“What are you making?”
“I don’t remember. You’re distracting me, Heart-Eyes. Go get me some sage from the roof. And a couple of nice, juicy tomatoes.”
“I’m banished?” I feigned indignation.
“It’s either that or I drag you back to the bedroom. Now, if you were to leave it up to me—”
“I’m going, I’m going.” I jumped off the stool. Vasilis would never get lunch at this rate.
Sage grew wild on the island, but Alex grew his herbs on the roof, each pot and bucket lush with something that roused the senses. Rose, honeysuckle, jasmine, eggplant, onions, garlic. The undulating waves of scent changed each time a breeze came in from the sea. I thought of the sterile apartment I shared with Dolly and closed my eyes.
Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you find it. And when you do, you want to pause and relish it forever.
My time with Alex, my getaway from myreallife was coming to an end.
Not now. Not yet.
Lingering on the roof, I plucked some tomatoes—warm and sun-ripened. Goats grazed on the sparse greenery below, beautiful and noble, with wide, twisting horns and long beards. The morning haze had cleared, and the sea shimmered with bright shades of blue and turquoise.
I made my way back to the kitchen and found Alex rolling out sheets of pasta with an empty wine bottle.
“Can’t find my rolling pin,” he said.
I debated telling him about the spot of flour on his nose but decided it belonged there, like the scar on his forearm that looked like a sheet pan burn.
“Something smells good.” I peered into the pot on the stove. Shallots were sizzling in butter.
When Alex added the sage, the aroma turned rich and fragrant. He was tossing together a mix of soft white cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and olives when the door swung open. Vasilis stood at the entrance, sniffing the air.
“I knew it,” he said. “Ravioli with sage browned butter. You’re trying to win me over by bribing me with my favorite dish.”
Alex didn’t confirm or deny it, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Here.” He handed his father the bowl of filling he’d been mixing. “The sooner we assemble the ravioli, the sooner we get to eat it.”
“Yes, but first…” Vasilis put the bowl down and pulled out a corked glass bottle. “The ouzo.” He poured some for himself and Alex.
“Yamas!” They toasted, raising their small glasses.
An easy affection flowed between them as they sipped the anise-flavored spirit. I sensed this was a father-son tradition, a warm groove they fell into whenever Alex came home. Drink. Cook. Eat. Repeat. Give each other the freedom to grow, find a reason to come together, and keep coming back for more.
I sighed. Would Dolly and I ever get out of the rigid corners we’d boxed ourselves into and share that kind of fluidity? My life was all about rules.
Don’t go in the water.
Don’t eat too much.
Don’t laugh too loud.
Don’t fall in love. With anyone but a three-thumbed man.
