“You gonna talk to me?” Markos asked after a beat, his brow lifted. “Or brood like some noir antihero with a vendetta.”
Nikos didn’t respond. His mind was stuck—caught in a strange mental skip like a record scratching over the same groove. The day replayed in fractured flashes: the paintball match, Kiki’s laughter, the scent of chocolate and spice, the way she moved.
And then… nothing.
He remembered walking her to the door.
But everything after that?
A blur.
A smear of light and sound with no edge or shape.
His drink arrived with a quiet clink. He stared at it as the seconds ticked by, his fingers resting on the base of the glass but not lifting it. His frown deepened as he watched the condensation slide downthe sides.
“Nikos?”
His brother reached out and gave his arm a small shake.
He blinked. “What?”
Markos studied him, frowning now too. “You look like you’re in a daze. Did you hit your head or something?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. So, I’ll ask again. How’d the blind date go?”
Nikos picked up his glass and took a sip. The burn steadied him.
He frowned down at the table, watching the light from the floor dance across the surface. His date. The one he had been dreading.
“She surprised me,” he said quietly.
“Good surprise or bad?”
“Both.”
Markos lifted his eyebrow again but waited.
“She’s not what I expected,” Nikos continued. “She’s sharp, funny, and sarcastic as hell; and she’s got this way of… moving that is mesmerizing.”
“Huh,” Markos murmured, his voice holding a note of skepticism. “She sounds mysterious.”
“She’s incredible,” Nikos muttered.
“So, what did you two do? I believe you said she doesn’t go out at night.”
He chuckled, low and disbelieving. “We played paintball.”
“Paintball? Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” Markos muttered with a shake of his head. “Definitely not something the Contessa twins would suggest. Hell, I can’t think of a single woman we’ve ever dated who would volunteer to mess up their hair that way and get bruised.”
Nikos laughed again. “Like I said, she’s incredible.”
He shared their game. The strategy. How Kiki kept pace with him through the match like she’d choreographed the whole thing in advance.
“She’s got moves,” he said. “Like—genuine tactical moves that I’ve only ever seen in a war zone. Every turn, every duck, every shot—she wasn’t guessing. She was calculating. Predicting. Executing.”
Markos looked intrigued. “Military?”
