Rafael didn’t deny it. He set his drink down, lifted his sunglasses, and stood.
She’d worn it to drawexactlythis reaction from him.
His attention was immediate and absolute. It burned away the last of her self-consciousness, even as it sent her pulse skyrocketing.
“It’s even better than I imagined,” he said quietly, coming closer. His forefinger found the thin strap at her hip and followed it inward and down. Something wicked filled his green eyes. “I don’t even need to take it off.” The smallest shift of fabric. “That much is enough.”
And then he showed her exactly how right he was.
Chapter Nineteen
The woman could command a warship with just one eyebrow.
Rafael’syiayiastood in the stone doorway like she owned the house—and the entire hillside it rested on. He folded her into his arms, careful not to crush her. She kissed both cheeks, cupped his face as if committing him to memory, and spoke words that sounded at once fond and chiding.
Bea didn’t need a translation to understand: he was her favorite.
No pressure.
Yiayia’s dress was black, floral, and valiantly buttoned across a formidable bust. Her white-blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, stabbed through with a pencil and knitting needle.
Her gaze swept over Bea like she was assessing a melon for ripeness. Not unkind, just unconvinced. Bea gave her most polite smile. Yiayia clucked her tongue, muttered something brisk in Greek, and turned back into the house, gesturing for them to follow.
Bea looked up at Rafael, nerves crawling like ants down her back. “Did I fail already?”
He slipped an arm around her and kissed her temple as they strode inside. “She said you can stay.”
“That’s it?”
“She also said you’re dainty.” A pause. “Like a fairy.”
She’d been warned by Selene that Yiayia thought Western girls made pretty wives, but were meant more for decoration than for the hard work of a life.
“I’m five foot five,” she protested, side-eyeing him like he was solely responsible for the height gap that made her come off as vertically challenged.
“She means you’re pretty,” he murmured.
They were in Kini, a coastal village on Syros where Rafael’s mother had grown up. The house was whitewashed and sun-warm, pink bougainvillea curling along every ledge. Rafael’s uncle and Selene’s older brother, Theios Kostas, had picked them up from the port, and they’d passed winding roads and glittering water until they reached sleepy streets and signs scrawled by hand.
Yiayia hadn’t attended the wedding—a mix of heart flutters, a stubborn knee, and zero interest in airplanes—but she’d insisted on hosting them for at least two nights, preferably five, ideally the whole month.
Rafael had agreed to the two.
They sat on a stiff sofa in Yiayia’s front room, the kind meant to be kept tidy rather than truly used. On the walls hung heavy frames of children and grandchildren, and above a small vigil lamp, a saint in gold.
Yiayia returned bearing a silver tray, and put it down on the low wooden coffee table. Loukoumádes glistened, dripping in honey and lemon zest, the scent deep-fried and sweet.
“She made loukoumádes for you,” Rafael said. “I may have mentioned your dessert habits.”
Yiayia pushed the tray closer to Bea and watched.
This was a test. One she would have no trouble passing.
Bea took one eagerly and bit in. The shell crackled between her teeth. The inside was soft, hot, absurdly light.
“These areincredible,” she said, catching a streak of honey with the back of her hand.
Yiayia squinted, then said something rapid.
