He looks over his shoulder, then turns back to me. “She, uh?—”
Before he can form a coherent sentence, his accomplice slips out from behind a door labeledStaff Only, her messy bun looking even messier.
“Amelia Greer!” I stumble forward and shake my head.
“What?” She tries to play it off with a shrug, but her eyes are the size of saucers. “I’m on vacation.”
Millie, with her skin flushed—most definitely not from the Mediterranean sun—saunters over to me just as Cam catches up.
“Joey, there you—” He halts when he sees Millie and Ezra and the state of their disheveled clothing. “What’s going on?” he asks.
I don’t have time for this. I cross my arms in front of me, ready to bolt. I almost let myself get involved with him all over again.
He thinks it’s a sign that we’ve found each other again, and here, of all places.
Even if I believed in signs, I swore off relationships. For most of my life, I’ve watched my mom get wrapped up in one man after another, only to be dumped faster than a contestant onThe Bachelor. And because I’m my mother’s daughter, I followed suit, putting all my eggs in a man’s basket, only to find myself cheated on and homeless. Nope. Nope. And more nope.
I had a moment of weakness, that’s all. But I’m good now.
Not bothering to wait for anyone’s response, I spin on my heel, ready to make a hasty exit.
“Wait!” Cam leaps in front of me, blocking my path. “What happened back there? We need to talk.”
“I’m good.” I step around him, but he blocks me again.
With his thumb and index finger, he lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“There you guys are!” Nik, our favorite barista-slash-bartender strides over. “Mr. Connelly!” He grabs Cam around the neck. “Éla! Come.”
“That’s okay, I’m going to call it a night,” I say, holding up a hand.
“Po po,” Nik replies. “Nonsense!” He grasps my wrist and tugs me toward the bar, with everyone else following close behind. “The night is just beginning.”
I have no idea what’s happening, but I obey the instructions, nonetheless, and before I know it, he’s set a platter of shot glasses and a carafe of clear liquid on the table in front of us.
“Oh no,” I groan, slumping into one of the chairs.
We were introduced to this Cretan tradition in the taverna earlier today. Raki, also known as lion’s milk, is an alcoholic drink made of twice-distilled grapes. According to our server, it’s supplied at nearly every meal for basically every occasion and is a symbol of friendship and nobility. And according to Google, it’s forty to fifty percent alcohol.
Nik slides a shot glass my way and smiles. “I promise you will like this one. We add local honey.”
I’m not so sure I believe him, but my Google search also told me that turning down the drink can be considered rude, so I slap a smile to my face and raise my glass along with everyone else.
“Yamas!” We shout the Greek equivalent ofCheers! then throw back our shots.
“Woo!” I huff, dabbing the corner of my lips.
“Well?” Nik raises his brows, his eyes bright.
“Not bad,” I admit. “The honey really takes the sting away.”
“Bravo.” He smiles wide. “Stay. I bring you rose-infused raki this time. And orange cake!”
I could leave now, and I probably should. But I can’t walk out on a Greek man who’s bringing me cake. Instead, though I know I’ll regret it in the morning, I pour myself another shot of lion’s milk.
19
Josefine
