“He wasn’t very accommodating last time.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
I end the call soon after. Giovanni is still bent over but with his chin resting in his hand, a bored look on his face, my petulant little prince. I slide one hand along his flank, regretting this interruption. “I have to make a few more calls.”
He yawns and stretches like a cat. “I gathered.”
“You know I’d rather be inside you right now.”
He glances down at my tented pants, my erection still holding out hope for release. “I can warm your cock while you make your calls.”
My dick nods at the offer, but I shake my head with sorrow. “I don’t think that would help my ability to negotiate.”
“Well,” he shrugs and straightens his apron. “This boy is ready when you are. Until then, I will bake.”
My good mood quickly sours when dealing with the supplier. After explaining the issue three times to three different people, I finally get Vasilis on the phone. We never had problems until this man, the owner’s son, took over the family business. The last time this happened, we argued about it, and I ended up taking the hit, absorbing the loss as the cost of them getting their house in order. Not again.
It’s not long before I’m in a heated argument with the man, who is cursing both my honor and my reputation, calling us fools and implying something more nefarious on my end.
“Vasilis, do you really think I would go through the trouble of bottling your oil, replacing the tank with something inferior, then paying to have it shipped back to you? All to prove a point?”
“The Italians do it all the time, greedy bastards, but I know the difference. Your soil is polluted and barren. It gives the oil a bitter taste.”
“Now you are insulting my homeland?” I am astounded by the man’s gall.
“You insult me when you call my oil sour.”
“I didn’t saysour, I saidacidic, and you are being dense on purpose.”
It doesn’t improve from there, and I end the call with no resolution. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s taking this so personally, as olive harvesting and refinement is more than just their livelihood, it’s their culture, a tradition that’s been passed down for generations in the Kalamata region of Greece. Most of the families have trademarked their own blends of olive oil, and some of the groves have trees that are a thousand years old. There is sometimes sabotage that occurs to particularly prized trees, resulting in blood feuds between neighbors. It’s a dicey situation.
More concerning to me than the man’s pride is that I don’t like being so reliant on one supplier, and this one in particular, who is young and hot-headed and too arrogant to admit his product is flawed. When I discuss the matter with my team via an impromptu conference call, we all come to the same conclusion. I must go to Greece and negotiate with Vasilis in person, and if we can’t reach an agreement, I’ll need to find another supplier.
I take a break from phone calls to sit at the counter and rub my temple. The dough has risen for the second time, and Giovanni is now using his oiled fingertips to dimple the surface so that it creates the bubbly effect. I watch him in a kind of trance while my mind works through various scenarios.
“Sir?” Gio says. He’s washed up and is now at my side, gently removing my hand from where it’s tangled in my hair. He sets aside my phone too, which I’ve been holding in a death grip, and maneuvers my head backward to rest against his chest.“Close your eyes and think of the ocean.”
He massages my head, starting with slow circles at my temples, then gently drawing his fingertips up through my hair.
“That feels good, baby,” I murmur.
“Can’t have you getting a migraine,” he says, noticing the signs even before I do. “Stress can lead to high blood pressure, you know.”
“Thank God I no longer eat delicious, fatty meats or fried food.” I open one eye to catch his smile.
“Things at work not going well?” he asks.
I sigh because I hate doing this to him, especially with such little notice. “I need to go on a business trip, princess. I’d like to take you with me, but this will not be for pleasure. I’ll be in contentious meetings and possibly touring facilities and having to be tough with suppliers. There may be some unsavory characters.” Not all the families operate like mafia, but some do.
“That’s… disappointing. How long will you be gone?”
“A week, at the most.” He presses his lips tightly together, trying to be brave. The longest I’ve left him since Valentin passed has been three days and even that was a struggle. “We’ll video chat every day, and you’ll have your schedule to follow. Ma and Anthony will be here to keep you company. You think you can book an extra appointment with Rebekah?”
He nods. “I can try. When will you be leaving?”
This issue needs to be resolved as soon as possible, unfortunately. “I’d like to head out tomorrow morning, after I’ve spoken with my lawyer.”
“I’ll help you pack then,” he says with the resignation of a military spouse sending their beloved off to war.
