Bea had made her share of strange decisions. Cooking lessons at dawn, over the hidden cove Rafael had tried to entice her to explore, might break the top five.
Yiayia knocked once. Then came straight in.
The sun had barely peeked over the hill. Rafael had left earlier than usual for his morning run, allegedly so he could be backbeforeYiayia came for her. Bea yanked her hair into a ponytail, splashed cold water on her face, and realized she was going in solo.
No lifelines.
But because yesterday she’d practically begged for this lesson like a lunatic, she couldn’t shirk now and bring dishonor to her ancestors.
Also, it was their last full day on Syros. She needed to be promoted from dainty fairy to something more durable before they left. A huntress, maybe. One who could be counted on to feed her man.
Yiayia thrust an apron at her.
There were no instructions, just action. Yiayia moved like a general on the front lines. The kitchen was her command center. She motioned for Bea to sift flour. Dipped her fingers into a bowl of water—warm, not hot, not cool,just so. She raised one eyebrow when Bea dropped eggshells into the bowl. Another when the whisking got spirited.
By the time Rafael returned from his run, Bea had flour on her nose, her elbow, and the back of her knee. Her braid had started fraying like an old rope.
The first attempt he witnessed browned too fast, then deflated like a popped balloon. Yiayia crossed herself. By cadence alone she could tell the words were deeply disappointed.
Bea sighed. “Translate?”
“Better not, baby.” Rafael grinned. “Do you need rescuing? We can escape to the town.”
“And have her think her golden grandson married an infidel?”
“If she didn’t like you, you’d have found a goat in our bed by now. Yiayia is not subtle.”
“Go,” she shooed him. “I’m in too deep to back out now.”
He kissed her hair and vanished.
The next batch looked promising, right before they sagged. Defeat in dough form. Worse than the first.
Bea stared at them. Then at Yiayia.
“Ksana,” she said softly. Again.
Yiayia passed her a clean bowl.
Bea adjusted the flour. Slowed her stir. Whispered a prayer to Aphrodite, Hestia, and anyone who cared about carbs.
Batch three rose like it had something to prove.
“I did it!” She danced like no Greek grandmother was watching.
Yiayia poked it with a fork. Nodded once. Then pointed at the honey. Bea poured gleefully—until the spoon tapped her wrist.
“Only that much,” Rafael said, coming back into the room, freshly showered. He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Bea tilted her head back. “Even if they suck, you’re eating all of them.”
He skimmed her face, then the flour-dusted counter, then back again. Something flickered—pride, maybe. Appreciation. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear with a care that made her chest ache. “Every single one.”
They sat at the table together. Yiayia took the first bite. Chewed, expression unreadable. The room, suddenly, was very quiet. Bea held her breath. It felt like Rafael was, too.
She was a St. Ives graduate. A Senior Analyst at Monaghan & Stowe. It didn’t matter if she could fry dough properly. And yet it mattered more than her degrees.
Bea waited, her entire identity compressed into that single moment of judgment.
