“Absolutely,” Drako says.
“Liars,” Atlas shoots back, and we all laugh. “Where are the cookies?” he asks.
“Apollo has them,” I answer.
“Wait,” Apollo says as he starts to move, but in the tight, dark space, his elbows bump into all of us.
“Ow!” Drako complains.
“Oof!” Atlas follows.
“Hey!” I protest when I get hit too.
“Sorry, hold on. Damn it. Here! Got it!” I lift my hand toward the voice and bump into three others. It takes a few seconds before we’re all gathered around the crumpled, wet napkin holding the completely broken cookies.
“Merry Christmas, brothers,” I say, bringing a piece of dough to my mouth and licking the crumbs stuck to my fingers so not a single bit goes to waste.
“Merry Christmas, brothers,” they answer in a messy chorus—but it’s still perfect.
CHAPTER 1
NINA MARCHESI
I press my lips together to hide my smile and keep hanging the Christmas cookies, nestled inside clear acrylic baubles, onto the shop’s tree.
With my back to the only two customers inside at the moment—Damalis, the blacksmith’s wife, and Melaina, the bakery owner—I listen to their conversation because, well, I may not be a gossiping shopkeeper, but I’m not a deaf one either.
“I heard the Karamanlis donated a mirror. A family heirloom, apparently. I doubt it’s worth anything,” the woman with the sharper voice—Damalis—says to her friend, and it’s hard not to laugh, but I am a determined woman. “The way Cleantes Karamanlis is a con artist, he probably bought some cheap mirror at a corner shop and is calling it a family heirloom.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” Melaina replies, her voice deeper. “That man is capable of anything.” There’s a two-second pause before she speaks again, now almost in a whisper. “I also heard Eudora is donating five trays of baklava. After all theseyears, hasn’t she learned she should give up on desserts? No one ever bids on the sweets she donates.”
All right—maybe I’m not that determined, because this time I can’t swallow my laughter. It scratches my throat, trying to burst out of my tightly closed mouth, and I disguise it with a ridiculous cough. Ah, the Christmas spirit. Isn’t it delightful?
I glance behind the shop counter and find it empty. Thank God Mom is in the back, in the storage room, or she’d probably be giving me a very serious look of disapproval—even though it’s not my fault that, all day long, every customer who’s stepped into this shop has talked about nothing but the association’s Christmas party or the charity auction that will take place during it.
“One of the boys always ends up bidding on everything in the end, out of pity,” Melaina says—and just like that, at the mere mention of “the boys,” my stomach flips. I roll my eyes at myself. Old habits die hard, right? But it’s not like they mean anything.
“They’re angels,” Damalis agrees, and I’m pretty sure that if either of them actually looked at me, they’d find my eyes lodged somewhere near the back of my skull, because my eye roll this time is intense.
And there it is—the villagers’ other favorite topic on any given day of the week: how perfect “the boys” are. Honestly, I was starting to get worried. Distracted by party gossip, not a single customer had mentioned them today, and it’s already nearly nine in the morning.
Over the past few days, I’ve noticed that all it takes for someone to bring up “the boys” is for me to open the shop.And because of tonight’s event and how every island resident is caught up in last-minute preparations, there’s been a much higher-than-usual flow of customers passing through here.
I’ve been back in the village for just over a week, and today has undoubtedly been the busiest day in the shop since I returned. And considering how much people truly enjoy gossiping about “the boys,” it was extremely strange that they hadn’t been mentioned at all. I don’t remember it being like this when I left four years ago.
It’s probably related to the fact that back then I was constantly thinking about them—daydreaming about one of them being my prince charming and testing their last names after mine on every scrap of paper I could find.
I mean, I suppose if they’re the hosts of the party every living soul on this island is talking about, then technically theyarebeing mentioned anyway. It’s understandable. It really is.
The association’s party stirs up far more than idle chatter on the island. Besides relying exclusively on local vendors for every detail—boosting the village’s economy during the time of year with the least tourist activity—it’s the one party the entire island is invited to. So in addition to being a source of income for all families, it fuels gossip for the entire year to come.
Of course people are going to idolize the men responsible for it, especially since, from what I remember, they truly do look like what gods are supposed to look like. And besides, even I—who’ve just returned home after years away—am caught up in the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement that saturates the streets of Khione.
It’s impossible to remain immune after spending the entire day hearing about the details of the lavish party the island’s owners host every Christmas—especially because this is the first time I’m here as an adult woman.
I blink and shake my head when I realize my arm has been raised in the air, suspended halfway between the basket of cookies and the tree for who knows how long, lost in my thoughts, without hanging the ornament I’m holding.
“I wish one of them would look at my Kayra,” the sharp-voiced woman says, and if this conversation continues, my eyes are absolutely going to roll right out of my head at some point. I swear they are.
