Resisting Mr. Kane: Chapter 6

“I don’t have any posh restaurant-appropriate outfits,” I whine to Megan. We have laid out all my clothes in the suitcase as well as the bits and bobs I bought here on the island, like sarongs.

The situation is dire. When I was leaving this morning, Tristan asked if he could take me to Botrini’s.

A real date.

I’m a bundle of nerves and excitement, not just for seeing Tristan again but also for eating something other than a street gyro.

Megan shrugs. “I dunno why you’re so worried, he seems to prefer you with your clothes off anyway.” She holds a colourful beach sarong against my chest. “Maybe we could make a top out of this?”

“Do you have a sewing machine lying around here you’re not telling me about? I’ve got twenty minutes. I can’t make a nice top out of a bloody sarong.” I rummage through the tops and hold up a white vest top. “Blue jeans, white top. It’ll have to do.”

She nods. “At least it’s nice and tight. It’ll make him think about you naked. That’s the aim, right?”

I tug on the jeans, fraying at the ankles and knees, and pull the white top over my head. I’ve overcompensated with makeup, opting for a bold power pout with deep red lips and a sultry feline eye flick.

I’d have preferred more time and resources for this date considering the most heart-stopping man I’ve ever met, with a body that won’t quit, has only seen me in a gaudy yellow bikini and jeans.

I’m well aware that my days are numbered. A man like that isn’t going to hang around this island all summer for a fling with a backpacker. This will be my last night with him.

“He’s on the street.” Megan is perched at the window. “Oh, he looks scrumptious. You are in for a treat tonight.”

My heart goes from resting to racing, just knowing he’s in the vicinity.

She lets out a low loud wolf whistle.

“Megan, the window is open.” I fix my hair over my shoulders one last time and blow her a kiss. “Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck. He’s a done deal.”

I strap my ankles into the only dressy heels I have with me and trot down the stairs.

“Bring me back some leftovers please!” she shouts after me.

Outside, Tristan is leaning against the railing, having what seems to be an animated, angry conversation on the phone. His expression is thunderous. When he spots me, it softens, and he puts his finger up to signal he’ll be off the phone soon.

His forehead wrinkles into a deep scowl as he tries to keep his tone controlled. What is going on with this man? I’m not stupid, I know there’s stuff he’s not disclosing to me, but I can’t exactly ask him to bare it all after two days.

“Sorry.” Tristan strides towards me. He looks delicious. He’s in jeans and a crisp white shirt that sculpts nicely over his superheroic body parts.

I’m going to enjoy this meal this evening.

“You’re tall tonight.” He wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss, tongues and all.

I swoon a little. I’m five foot seven without heels. He still towers over me; he must be at least six foot three. “Sorry I’m so casually dressed. My packing itinerary didn’t cater to five-star restaurants.” I don’t admit to him I have no fancy clothes, period.

“You’re perfect just the way you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” He takes my hand. “Shall we? I’ve arranged a car for us.”

***

“So, you eat everything.” His eyes crinkle across the small table adorned with candles. “I’ll hold you to that.”

That was a complete lie. I have Crohn’s disease, a type of irritable bowel disease, but it doesn’t feel like a first-date disclosure. Most of the time I can manage it if I’m careful with my diet. But it’s always at the back of my mind. When a restaurant host asks me if I want a window seat, I always say, no, I’d like one beside the toilet, please. It’s the same with planes and trains. One eye is always watching the bathroom queue.

I can’t do that tonight.

I wasn’t expecting Botrini’s to be so quaint. I study their menu, salivating. I’m regretting wearing these tight jeans.

Wait, what if we’re splitting the bill? I shouldn’t assume he is paying, should I?

“What type of wine do you like?” Tristan asks.

What type of wine do I like? I’ve only had a few solid years of wine drinking. Megan and I have been choosing our wine by the alcohol percentage, so I think that makes me more of a wine ignoramus rather than a wine connoisseur. My knowledge ends at red, white, rose, and orange. Although I’ve never tasted orange. “You decide,” I say.

“I’m going to order a bottle of the Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1989.” He closes his menu decisively. “You’ll love it.”

I scan the list of wines trying to find it. “How much is it?” I ask tentatively. Wine older than me sounds very expensive.

He looks affronted. “I’m paying, Elena. I asked you here.”

I let out a breath. Fantastic. I won’t be sticking to the house wine in that case. “Why do I have a feeling that you always like to be in control, Tristan?”

His eyes darken, and he leans back in his chair. “Happy for you to take full control this evening.”

I smile sweetly back. “Happy to.”

The waiter approaches us, greeting us in English. Tristan begins to speak but I place a hand over his, and address the waiter in Greek, ordering the wine.

“So, I’m in control, huh? Does that mean you trust me to order food for us?”

“Be my guest.”

I launch into a full-scale conversation with the waiter, stretching my Greek vocabulary to its limit.

Tristan watches my face intensely, like I’m the most important person in the restaurant—no, scrap that—in the Greek islands. As the waiter leaves, Tristan leans forward with a hungry glint in his eyes. “There is something insanely sexy about a woman being in control. Particularly a multilingual one.”

Mission accomplished.

My eyes widen. “Shit! I never asked if you have any allergies?”

“No allergies. Just addictions.” He winks. “To breath-taking Welsh Croatian multilingual women.”

I roll my eyes as the waiter comes back with our middle-aged wine. “Too cheesy.”

“Sorry.” He shrugs as the waiter pours. “It’s still true.” Brow creasing into a serious line, he takes the wine glass by its stem and tilts it to study it in the light. Satisfied, he swirls it and sniffs before taking a sip.

I think of the supermarket wine in a box I had been drinking that you don’t want to see, smell or taste; you just let it flow through you.

I follow suit, attempting to drink the wine like a grown-up. I tilt the glass and pretend to study the wine. I’ve no clue what I’m looking for so I skip to the next stage and take a large sip. It slides down my throat smoother than the supermarket wine. Test passed.

Tristan leans forward, resting his strong forearms on the table. “If you like that wine, we could go on a wine tasting tour tomorrow. There’s a lovely one on the other side of the island.”

My eyes widen. There’s a tomorrow for us?

“I can’t,” I say, disappointed but happy that he also looks disappointed. “I promised Megan I would go to Delis Island. To see the ruins? She wants to paint them.”

“The photographer and the painter.” He smiles. “It makes me mildly surprised you want to be a lawyer.”

“We have this romantic vision of travelling all over the world painting and taking pictures, then we’ll open an art gallery and sell our work. For millions, naturally.” I roll my eyes. “But I’m not that good, it’s just a hobby. Megan is really talented though. She has painted some beautiful works in Mykonos.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a balance of the best of both worlds. Corporate and creative.”

“We’ll see. Right now, I’m just trying to bag a trainee law contract.” I take a sip of wine. “So, tell me your story, Tristan. You said you work in property?”

His jaw flexes. “I buy and sell property with two mates of mine. One’s a full-time developer.”

“Are you here in Greece to buy some?” I ask.

He shifts in his seat. “No. Although some of the architecture is truly stunning.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. It’s like drawing blood from a stone. “Are you always such a closed book?”

He blows out a strained breath, then his large hand encloses mine. “I’m sorry, I know I’m being evasive. There are parts of my life that are…complicated right now. I didn’t mean to meet someone on this trip. So, I haven’t thought this through at all. I wasn’t prepared to answer questions.”

Unease rolls around my stomach. Is he married?

He squeezes my hands tighter when he sees my face fall.

“But I’d like to see you back in the UK when you get home. Then we can get to know each other better.”

My feet do a jig under the table.

“I understand if you don’t want to see me after this,” he adds. “I’m older than you and, believe me, pursuing a hot grad makes me feel like a cliché, but…let’s just say I’m not sure I’d be able to give you up that easily.”

“I don’t get it.” I shake my head. “Are you saying you want to…date me?”

He frowns. “Yes, why not?

I shake my head. “You’re clearly a successful well-established guy. I just thought you would be more interested in someone that’s got their shit together.”

His gaze roams my face. “You’re more impressive than you give yourself credit for. And it’s been a long time since I met someone who could make me laugh as much as you.”

My face heats. “Says the guy who owns a yacht to the girl with cockroach squatters.”

“Cockroaches and an uncanny ability to deflect every compliment.” He strokes my hair. “You’re my little stress ball.”

I scrunch up my face. “I remind you of a squidgy ball? That doesn’t sound very sexy.”

“It’s very sexy. And exactly what I need right now.” He looks at me impatiently. “Now will you give me your number?”

An excited squawk erupts from my throat. “I only have a Greek number right now,” I explain, pushing my phone across the table. “I lost my UK phone two days before I arrived in Greece.”

What’s the opposite of a smartphone? That’s what my phone is. He takes out his latest edition phone and copies my number from the dumb phone.

“You know, I have contacts that are senior partners at a few law firms in London. Dawson Law? I could line you up an interview for when you get home.”

My eyes double in size. “Seriously? Oh my God, that would be amazing.” Dawson Law is one of the top law firms in the UK. Not the top. That’s Madison Legal, where I eventually want to end up. But I’d gladly take an in at Dawson Law. This guy is the gift that keeps on giving…Michelin star food, my best orgasm, now this?

We laugh and talk for hours through the 11-course tasting menu I order for us. Yes, I wanted this meal to last and I’m making up for three weeks of gyros.

The conversation is just so easy. At one point, I laugh so hard at something he says, I snort wine out of my nose. I thought he’d be the type of guy to only go after sexy women at the top of their career, who have it together, live by themselves and know how many degrees to tilt their wine glass. Not me. Perhaps that’s why I introduced myself using my full name and not just Elly.

Slowly I gnaw away at him, picking up snippets of his life. The picture is forming, but there are still large parts of the puzzle I can’t piece together. Whatever’s the cause of his anguish these past few days, he’s not giving anything away.

Good things come to those who wait.

Me? I’m an open book. His eyes brim with interest as I chat about my degree, life as a student, my hopes and fears, our island-hopping plans.

A few hours later, it’s a hat-trick. Three glorious nights of award-winning sex followed by the sweetest pillow talk ever. More than I’ve had in my lifetime. Thank you, Greek gods.

***

I happily plunge the brush down the toilet then flush. Not even the rich ballerina and her passive aggressive demands can wipe the smile from my face today.

He wants to see me again.

Humming to myself, I move to the bath and pull her hair out of the drain.

After Dimitris pays us today, we can politely tell him to stick his placard and his toilet brush up his ass. We can save enough money working at the bar to take the few weeks off we wanted at the end of the trip to go island-hopping.

“Bathrooms done!” I call out merrily.

“I’ll be upstairs on deck.” She smiles at me and scoops up a pair of sunglasses from the table and puts them on her head. In shorts and a bikini, she shows off a figure that can’t be ignored. I make a mental note to start doing squats every day. 

I get to work in the kitchen. Crumbs paint the breakfast bar surface like she deliberately threw food around to give me work. Whatever, it’s fine. I run the hot water tap to fill the sink. Behind me, two animated voices, hers and a man’s, get louder as they descend the stairs to the lower deck.

When I turn to see who is with her, my heart vacates its cavity.

It’s not the guy I saw onboard the other day.

Tristan.

My Tristan.

His jaw drops when he recognises me, just as mine does. We stand frozen, staring at each other.

His is holding hands with her son.

His son?

His face turns white. “Elena.”

But that means…

“You’re married,” I choke out. The scene couldn’t be clearer if someone drew a picket fence and a dog around them.

He blinks rapidly. “It’s not how it looks.”

I stand stiff, not moving, not breathing.

This isn’t happening.

The ballerina looks between us, narrowing her eyes. “You cannot be serious. You fucked the cleaner? The cleaner?”

Tristan turns abruptly to her. “Not here, Gemina, not in front of Daniel.”

“Damn you, asshole” she roars at Tristan, triggering the son to start bawling his eyes out. Ballerina rushes forward and pushes against Tristan’s hard chest. “You think you can humiliate me? No!”

With a swift swipe of her arm across the breakfast bar, she sends two plates hurtling to the ground, smashing into tiny pieces.

I jump about two feet in the air.

Tristan steps back, stunned, then recovers. “Don’t do this in front of Daniel,” he pleads. “Sara!” he roars in the direction of the stairs. “Can you take Daniel and go for a walk? Daniel, go upstairs to Sara. Everything’s okay, Mummy and Daddy just need to talk. Mummy’s a little upset.”

Daniel stands still, eyes closed, mouth contorted, letting out a wail that could rip through your bones.

I feel like doing the same.

Just get out of here. Process it later. With shaking hands, I gather up my belongings and put my rucksack on my shoulders.

Unleashing a slew of expletives, the wife picks up a third plate and hurls it at Tristan, missing him by an inch. It smashes hard against the wall behind him.

“Gemina!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Daniel, go upstairs.”

What the fuck? I didn’t ask for front-row seats at the theatre production of The Exorcist. This woman is taking the Greek tradition of plate smashing too far.

I scuttle past, getting out of the angry woman’s line of fire.

She turns her wrath on me as I escape. “You’re nobody, girl! Just another fling,” she screams as I stumble up the steps. “He’s just trying to make me jealous!”

Sara, the nanny, passes me on the stairs, giving me a fleeting panicked look.

I reach the deck and feel a strong hand pull me back.

“Wait,” Tristan begs, holding me in his grip. “It’s not how it looks. You need to let me explain.”

I refuse to let the tears fall. I shrink back from his touch and slap him hard across the face. So hard, it sounds like a whip. “Fuck off, Tristan!” My voice has an uncontrollable tremor in it.  “Don’t come near me again!”

I climb off that boat faster than an Olympian runner and sprint down the dock, ignoring his shouts of my name behind me.

When I turn the corner, the dam opens, and I blubber uncontrollably on the street, ignoring the stares of random vacationers. My dumb phone pings. With trembling hands, I unlock the phone.

“Where are you? Let me explain. Please.”

Wiping snot from my face, I click on his contact details and hit block. What a gamut of emotions I’ve gone through in a single day.

How could he? And how could I be so easily fooled? I hung onto every word he was saying. I thought I was smarter than this.

Nope. I’m just a naive girl who mistook a holiday romp for a fairytale.

If this is what island-hopping is about, I’m ready to bungee jump off this place.

One thing he didn’t lie about: he is a cliché. And now, he’s made me one too. The dopey younger woman who falls for the older playboy leading a double life.

He made me a mistress at twenty-four.