THE SINK DRIPS DAY AND NIGHT. The floorboards squeak, the toilet lid won’t stay upright, and the shower splutters ice cold or boiling hot water.
Oh, and let’s not forget the smell—a stale, moldy odor soaks the air, impervious to every air freshener I found in the corner shop two streets over.
Refusing to crawl into the most-likely STD-infested bed, I spent my first day’s tips on a mattress protector, a blanket, and a pillow. Until then, I slept curled in a plastic chair, fully clothed.
Today and tomorrow are my days off. I can’t shake the feeling I’m wasting time sitting around, twiddling my thumbs instead of earning more money on the side so I can get out of the motel sooner than planned. With that in mind, I visit the corner shop, then sit on the floor in my room, skimming over this morning’s newspaper, searching the classified section for a waitressing or a cleaning job. The Greek Gods must be watching over me because my eyes stop on an ad for a private event catering company.
Waitresses needed. Twenty-five dollars an hour. Immediate start available.
Bingo.
“Good morning, I found your job ad for event waitressing.” I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back against the wall, a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside my leg.
“Yes, we’re always on the lookout for staff. Can you come by the office today to fill out the paperwork?”
“Of course. Can I have the address?”
“I’ll text you. Come by whenever.”
I expect a few questions before she invites me over, but she sounds desperate. I guess she’s short-staffed and that only works in my favor. The office is in the city center, four miles away. The sun is shining, the temperature outside around eighty degrees, so a walk it is.
After a quick shower, I tame my wet curls into a more manageable mess, slip into jean shorts, and yank a t-shirt over my head, leaving the room inside of five minutes. I’m pretty positive the motel stench will rub off on me if I linger too long, forcing me to shower again.
An hour and twenty minutes later, I step inside a tall, glass building in the heart of Newport Beach, where I’m greeted by an elderly man who sits behind a reception desk in the middle of an airy, modern lobby.
He wears a burgundy jacket that goes well with a head of white hair but brings to mind a bellhop. “Who are you here to see?” he asks, raising his gaze from a copy of some book.
“The event catering company.”
He grabs the phone, dialing a short number. “Someone’s here to see you.” He drums his fingers on the desk as I rock back and forth on the heels of my trainers. “Yes, no problem. I’ll send her in. He gestures toward the door to my left, setting the phone down. “Through there, then the third door on your right. Just knock and enter.”
“Thank you.”
I push the door open with both hands, my step bouncy as I emerge into a long, narrow hallway. One, two… knock, knock, knock, I go in as instructed.
“Hello, I’m—” The back end of that sentence hangs over the edge of a cliff and falls to its death when my eyes stop on a familiar face. “Oh…” I lean back, checking the company name on a silver plaque glued to the door. “Sorry, wrong door.”
Rows upon rows of shelves surround the office, housing what I think are hundreds of DVDs. Theo sits at a long desk equipped with five monitors—three in line and two above. A smile tugs at his lips, sending my heart fluttering all over the place. He makes me idiotically giddy. High on hormones whenever our eyes lock.
He crosses his muscular arms, slightly tilting his head up and to the side, exposing the porcelain column of his throat. I can’t look away from his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows, curious eyes roving down my body in a slow, unblinking once-over. I’m instantly back in the hot seat, ruled by him and his presence.
My knees turn to jello, and the undeniable magnetism returns full force. I envision it as a lasso wrapped tightly around my waist, the spoke in Theo’s grasp. He pulls slowly, wrapping the rope around his wrist, drawing me closer.
He’s like a fine drizzle—the worst kind of rain. It patters everywhere at once, wets your hair, clothes, and face, prickling at the eyes and settling over eyelashes.
Theo pushes away from the desk, rolling out with his chair before standing tall. I take in the view, all six-foot-one of his broad-chested, muscle-packed frame dressed in black slacks and a preppy polo shirt, which struggles to contain said muscular chest. The same chest I was pressed flush against on Saturday evening when we danced in Q.
“Hey, stranger.” The timbre of his voice resonates deep and reverberates through my body. “Who are you here to see?”
“The event catering company. The receptionist said third door on the right.” I arch back again, counting the doors down the hall, taking the opportunity of no eye contact to get a hold of myself. “This is it, but—”
“Technically, it is the third door, but the first door you passed opens to a staircase. You want the next door.”
I readjust my bag as he steps closer, leaving just two feet of space between us. The scent of him, a rich, manly mixture of wood, smoke, and citrusy delight, is so complex I almost moan. Lime or bergamot, I think. And a hint of mint.
“You smell so good…” My eyes are fixed on his neck, where he must’ve sprayed the cologne earlier this morning.
I have the sudden urge to bury my nose there and inhale him. Maybe there’s more to that scent? An undernote I missed.
My panties dampen as if on cue. There’s nothing as stimulating as a good-smelling man. I glance up, catching his almost cruel smile that makes it painfully obvious I spoke my mind aloud. I’m eye level with his neck, and he’s so big and broad, built like a predator, that I feel tiny, even though at five feet seven, I’m not short. I am, however, defenseless against the masculine energy buzzing around him. But controlling my urges is easier today than it was on Saturday when four drinks coursed through my system, and his good-smelling body moved against mine on the dance floor, our fingers threaded together on my stomach most of the time.
His warm breath on my neck.
The thumping of his heartbeat beneath his ribs.
Long fingers digging into my hips.
I was feverish. Vulnerable and safe at the same time.
“Good, huh?” Theo’s smile widens, snapping me out of the vivid memories.
I stumble back a step. “Sorry. Thank you, and sorry for barging in I-I should go.” As if my comment wasn’t shameful enough, stumbling over my words sure is.
“You got fired from the Country Club?” he asks.
I pause, one hand firmly on the handle, holding tightly as if it’ll keep me in place, grounded, freaking anchored, so I don’t nuzzle my face in the crook of his neck. God, I really need to stop ogling him as if he’s a lollipop I’d like to lick and suck.
“No, why?”
He hikes up one skeptical eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest again. “So why are you here?”
“I’m interviewing for a job.”
“You have a job, Thalia. You won’t make half of what you make at the golf course waitressing for Sandra. What happened? Are the golfers too much to handle?”
Oh, he thinks I’m trying to replace one job with another. Of course. Working two jobs must be a foreign concept to Theo Hayes. I’ve only been around here a week, but a week is more than enough to learn about the ins and outs of this town if you pay attention to what people say.
In Newport Beach, gossip is the bread and butter of the elite. The Hayes surname is mentioned a lot. Robert Hayes is the city’s beloved mayor, while his wife—a former Miss California title winner—is heavily involved with charity work, organizing various balls, auctions, and galas to raise money for causes close to her heart.
The power couple of Newport Beach.
They brought to the world seven sons—elite troublemakers.
Entitled.
Spoiled.
Arrogant.
Hot.
Fuckable.
At least that’s the consensus among the cart girls. The bar staff has a different take on the Hayes brothers. And so do the Country Club’s members. They’re highly respected by most. Envied, too. From what I learned, every description of them is valid to an extent, but not all brothers fit in one bag labeled with the same tags.
Theo’s hot, fuckable, and a little spoiled. Not arrogant. At least I’ve not seen that side of him yet.
“Nothing happened. I don’t want to quit working as a cart girl. I want a second job. My evenings are free, and I don’t work Wednesdays or Thursdays. I’ve got time.” I glance at my wristwatch, tugging my bottom lip through my teeth. “Just not right now. Sorry, but I need to get going. I’ll see you on Sunday. Water, isn’t it?”
He smirks, holding the door open when I step away until my back finds the wall on the other side of the narrow corridor.
So, so graceful.
“Unless Nico buys another toy I want to test-drive, it’ll be a Bud Light. Barge in here again when you’re done with Sandra. I’ll take you out for coffee.”
“Coffee?” I cuckoo, pulling my eyebrows together.
“Yeah,” he huffs a half-hearted chuckle. “Brown, bitter, delicious. You do have that in Greece, right?”
“Yes. Much better than what I’ve had here so far.” I ponder the invitation for a total of three seconds. Who in their right mind would say no to him? “Coffee sounds nice.”
A rational part of me, the one not ruled by hormones and pushed to action by the long celibacy, plays this down. I have no friends, and closing myself off isn’t in my nature. Until recently, I’ve been surrounded by crowds of people, and I miss that. The hormone-ruled side of me knows it’s bullshit.
Theo and I won’t be friends. We’ll fuck and move on. I have no strength to resist that man, and there is one tag that all Hayes brothers share: player.
The interview with Sandra takes ten minutes. It’s not really an interview. Apart from asking if I’m legally allowed to serve alcohol and capable of balancing a tray full of drinks on the palm of my hand, she focuses on measuring me up and fetching a uniform. This one, at least, is less revealing than the one at the Country Club—white shirt, black waistcoat, and a below-the-knee black pencil skirt.
“We cater to the upper class. Any reason is good for the Newport Beach elite to throw a party. We are absolutely swamped during summer.” She speaks faster than she moves, opening and closing drawers and cabinets, rushing around the office searching for a pen, checking her phone, and then cutting off calls. “When can you start? We’re catering to a sixtieth birthday party tomorrow. Are you good for that? Three hundred guests, six hours.”
“Yes, sure. Where and what time?”
“You must be at the residence at five-thirty. The party starts at six. Arrive in your uniform and ask for George. He’ll give you further instructions.” She hands me a wad of papers. “Fill this in at home. It’s a standard contract and some details we need. Give it to George tomorrow.” She scribbles an address on the back of a gold business card. “This is where you need to be. Five thirty tomorrow.”
I take the card out of her hand, and a second later, she’s by the door, which is my cue to leave. “Thank you. I won’t disappoint, I promise.”
“I know, I—” The phone starts ringing on her desk for the seventh time. She flashes me a glowing smile before closing the door in my face.
“Crazy, isn’t she?” Theo says, resting against the door to his office, a phone in hand. “Got the job?”
“Yes. I start tomorrow.” I tuck the uniform into my bag, zipping it up. A thrilling burst detonates in my chest as I step closer to him. “So? Coffee?”
He holds out his hand toward the door leading back to the lobby. We fall into step, passing the bellhop, who spares us a curious glance before we leave the building.
“How’s the apartment hunt going?” Theo asks, heading down the street. “Have you found a place?”
“No, I’m not looking yet. I won’t have enough saved to rent a place for at least another month. Newport Beach is expensive, but the pay is good, and there’s work everywhere.”
Theo pushes the door to the café open, letting me in first. The bittersweet aroma of coffee overpowers the smell of his earthy cologne. I welcome the sensory distraction with open arms, inhaling deeply to clear my mind off this idiotic, lustful fog. Maybe I’ll stop acting so out-of-character if I can’t smell the arousing scent.
We stop by the counter where a young barista pours milk into a tall glass and then covers the froth with two espresso shots before moving to the till to take our order.
“A large, iced, white coffee and…” Theo pauses, bringing his eyes to me.
“I’ll have the same.” I reach for my wallet, but he pushes my hand away, smirking under his breath.
“Will you please stop doing that around me? It’s very emasculating, Thalia.”
“Emasculating?” My pronunciation isn’t quite perfect on the first try, the word foreign to my ears. “Emasculating…”
“It means I feel like less of a man when you think I expect you to pay for your coffee. I invited you here. My treat.”
This isn’t the first time someone has helped me with a definition of a word I’ve never heard, but it is the first time I’m not embarrassed by not knowing. There’s not a trace of mockery or surprise in Theo’s tone. I relax, knowing my lacking vocabulary won’t be met with laughter. I’m self-conscious as it is because of my thick accent and the trilling r I can’t soften, no matter how hard I try.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your ego.”
Once the barista slides our coffees across the counter, we settle into a booth by the window overlooking the main street. Shiny, expensive cars line the curbs, and people rush about in dark shades, designer bags in hand. The shopfronts of well-known luxury brands reflect the sunlight, enhancing the items on display and enticing the Newport Elite to tap out their pin and press the green button.
Theo sits opposite me, forearms on the table. His long fingers mindlessly slide the glass across the tabletop between his hands. His dark eyes roam over my face for the hundredth time since we met. I’ve never been looked at the way he does—as if he’s trying to memorize me. As if he’s searching for something he lost. His gaze slides from my eyes to my lips, cheeks, nose, and back to my eyes, forcing a shot of adrenaline to throb in my veins like the first taste of alcohol.
The polo shirt he wears stretches across his chest, the fabric on the verge of bursting at its seams. Black lines of a tattoo in the crook of his neck steal my attention. I haven’t noticed it before, but now that he angles his head, the collar of his shirt naturally tilted, revealing the ink, my curiosity takes the lead.
“What have you got there?” I point at his neck.
He hooks his finger in the collar, pulling it aside to uncover the design. Feathers. Very detailed, arranged into wings. I imagine they run lower, across his shoulder, ending somewhere under the sleeve. Or maybe they’re tattooed down his back.
“That’s beautiful.” I pump my fists, fidgeting in the seat, itching to graze my fingers over the black lines. “I’ve been thinking about a tattoo for years, but I’ve got a very low pain threshold, and I’m afraid I’ll pass out.”
“You can ask for an anesthetic these days, but it’s really not that bad. When you’re ready for ink, let me know. I’ll take you to Toby’s studio. He’s the best around here.”
The design I’ve been sitting on for at least five years flashes before my eyes—a floral dream catcher on my thigh. For now, I don’t have enough money to waste on ink, but one day, when I can afford it, I’ll pluck the courage and tick tattoo off my bucket list.
“So, what do you do in that office? Why do you need five monitors?”
“I design games. Mostly web-based, but I’ve been working on a large-scale project for a while now.”
He tells me about the idea and how he spent the last four years developing the multi-universe game. He uses many technical terms, and I often stop him, asking for a synonym or an explanation, but he’s patient and doesn’t seem to mind explaining the words.
“If you want, I could help you with that,” I say after he tells me the game is centered around Greek Gods. “My father was fascinated with mythology. He taught myths at a college in Athens when I was younger.”
“That’d be great. I’ve done the research, but it’d be nice if you could check it over before I finalize the project.”
“Sure. Whenever you’re ready.”
Theo wipes condensation from the glass with his thumb, then lifts it to his raspberry lips. My ovaries start the tug-of-war again, the primitive thrill of arousal in the highest gear, tingling at the backs of my thighs.
He might not realize what he’s doing, but I’m burning up as he grazes his thumb across his lower lip.
He’s lost in thought for a moment before he drops his hand back to the glass, blissfully unaware of my wild thoughts.
We spend an hour talking and take our time with the coffee. The ice has long melted in mine, but I savor small sips like the nectar of the gods, asking every question that comes to mind.
It’s nice to talk to someone. It’s nice not to be locked in the stinky motel room.
I’m still getting used to functioning in society again and not voicing my thoughts after spending eighteen months talking aloud to myself just to hear a voice. It’s a miracle I’ve not gone mad, isolated in the tiny cabin in the woods my grandfather built before my mother was born.
I inherited it when he passed away six years ago, and I always loved the tranquility of the vast lake and the secluded, deserted area. I grew to despise the four walls while I hid there, only leaving once a week for supplies.
“Hold that thought,” Theo says when I’m about to ask another question. He strides to the cashier and comes back a moment later with two more coffees in takeout cups, gesturing for me to follow him outside. “I bet you’ve not been to the beach yet.” He hands me one cup, pointing ahead. “There’s a nice restaurant around the corner with an ocean view. You’re Greek, so I assume you like seafood. Their lobster is great.”
“Coffee’s enough, but the beach sounds fun. Have you lived here your whole life?”
“Born and raised. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I guess that’s why I find you fascinating. You’ve got some balls packing up your life and starting afresh here.”
“Sometimes, all you can do is change the scenery.”
And sometimes, you have no other choice than run and hope your past doesn’t decide to follow.
We reach the beach, and I kick my shoes off and wiggle my toes, enjoying the softness and warmth of the sand under my bare feet as we walk closer to the water. People sunbathe on towels and sun loungers, and kids run around kicking balls or making sandcastles. Surfers sit on their boards, shaking their heads, unhappy with the low, lazy waves.
I plop down close to the water’s edge, letting the waves crash against my feet. Theo stays back, pushing his shades further up his nose while I shield my eyes with my hand, tilting my head to the side.
“Teach me Greek,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence. “How do you say hello?”
“You said that you know a few words. I would’ve expected hello to be on the list.”
“I know words I had to translate for the game. Welcome instead of hello.”
“Chaírete.”
“Chaírete.” He catches onto the accent perfectly. My native language in his mouth, coupled with the raspy note of his voice, sounds too appealing and too sexy.
“Yes, good. Now say, antío.”
“Antío,” he echoes. “I guess that means bye?”
I bob my head. “You’re really good with accents. Do you speak any other languages?”
“Italian and a bit of Spanish. Enough to find my way around there if I’ll ever need to but not enough to hold a decent conversation.”
“Impressive. Maybe one day you can teach me Italian.”
Although, French would be better.
French kissing.
The dimples in his cheeks pop when he smiles, eyes sparkling like the sky on the Fourth of July. God, I’m getting freaking poetic in my own head, all while I imagine climbing his lap like a tree and thrusting my tongue into his mouth.
“Where did you learn English? I bet it wasn’t at school. You’ve got a richer vocabulary than a lot of people who were born here, believe me.”
“I did take English lessons at school, but the curriculum was very basic, and after eight years of studying, I couldn’t even hold a decent conversation. I learned mostly from music, movies, and fiction books.”
“Why did you move to America all alone?” He casually sips his coffee, seemingly relaxed, but I can see he’s wound up tight, waiting for the answer as if he’s desperate to learn more about me but doesn’t want to let it show.
I squeeze the cup so hard that the lid pops out of place. I’ve got a rehearsed answer to this question ready. It’s simple, believable, and completely innocent. The same answer I fed everyone who’s asked so far. The truth is too disturbing and painful, but meeting Theo’s curious gaze, I’m hesitant to lie.
The truth will set you free.
Not in this case.
I wish I could tell him. Or anyone for that matter, but that kind of confession requires trust on an unbreakable level, and I can’t let myself trust that much.
New life.
New friends.
New beginning.
The past stays where it belongs.
“The American Dream,” I say with a sigh, swallowing the shame burning my throat. “Greece is a beautiful country, but it’s not somewhere you’d choose to live and work. Most people live mediocre lives, trying to make ends meet, worrying if they’ll have enough money to last until the next paycheck. I wanted a more stable life than that.”
“What about your family? Didn’t they want to move over here with you? Your parents? Siblings?”
I lean back, stretching on the sand, while the waves crash against my feet, reaching higher, lower, and higher again. “I’m an only child, and my parents are very traditional. They’d never leave Greece.”
I hope he won’t ask another question. I’m stepping on thin ice around him as it is.
By the look of him, the reserve and doubtful edge to his eyes, he knows that’s not the whole story. He turns away, staring at the calm ocean, and the flat look on his face feels like a slap across my cheek. I never want to see him so… detached again.
“Tell me about your family,” I say, hoping to God it’ll get him talking again because right now, he looks like he’s about to get up and leave. “It must’ve been fun growing up with six brothers.”
Taking his sweet time, he brings his eyes back to mine, and the smile he’s trying to keep at bay has my heart skipping a series of flickering beats. “Fun?” He touches the scar on his cheek. “That’s Logan’s doing. He shoved a stick into the wheel of my bike when I was eight. I landed face-first on a tree stump in the woods while we were away for a weekend with my grandparents.” He points at the bridge of his nose. “That’s Shawn and Nico. Shawn threw an iron at me when I was eleven. Nico broke it with his fist five years ago.”
“He hit you? Why?”
Theo shrugs. “I was drunk, said some shit… I deserved it. He did that, too.” He points at the tiny scar on his lip, the one I want to run my tongue along to see if I’ll feel any difference. “Same evening. It took him one blast to break my nose and split my lip.” A peal of soft laughter wheezes past his lips. “Growing up with them had its ups and downs, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re close, and now that the triplets are starting to man up, they spend more time with us too.”
I never wanted siblings, but hearing the fondness in Theo’s voice makes me a little jealous that I’m an only child. Maybe if I had siblings, I wouldn’t be alone now. Maybe my brother or sister would be as close to me as Theo is to his brothers. I bet they always have each other’s back no matter what happens. I bet their parents are the same—caring and loving.
Not like my parents.
The sun dips closer toward the horizon, painting the sea a kaleidoscope of oranges, yellows, and purples, while we sit on the beach talking and laughing, the world passing us by. I could spend a few more hours like this, listening to his stories, but Theo has different plans.
“I’m starving, Thalia. I’m sure you are, too,” he says a while later, prompting me to glance at my watch.
I sit up, startled by the deserted beach. It’s six in the evening, our coffees long gone, cups discarded by Theo when he told me he hates coming back from work to an empty condo and is pondering the idea of buying a dog.
Since then, we’ve touched on so many subjects I feel like I’ve known him for a long time. And I feel like no more than two hours have passed since I stumbled into his office.
“Thank you, but I should head back to the motel.” I rise to my feet, brushing sand off my clothes. “I’m sorry I stole your afternoon. Actually… no, I’m not sorry. This was nice.”
“I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you inside the restaurant if I have to. I’m not kidding.” He gestures toward the street, urging me to start walking. “I’ll drive you back to the motel after dinner.”
He shouldn’t have said that.
My mind is a vivid and colorful space. The scene he described isn’t hard to imagine or spice up. I picture him doing just as he said—slinging me over his shoulder, carrying me to bed where I can scream his name. There’s no doubt in my mind Theo Hayes knows exactly how to make a woman scream.
Not for the first time in his presence, I clench my thighs together to get some semblance of friction and inhale an inconspicuous breath. A ride sounds better than a four-mile trek to the motel, and now that we’re almost at the restaurant door, the aromatic scent of garlic bread and freshly cooked seafood sifting through the air reminds me just how hungry I am.
“Fine, but this time, my treat,” I push the door open, not letting him get a word in, but he catches up with me inside. He grips my upper arm, yanking me to his chest. My cheek brushes against his shirt, and I see stars.
This is laughable! Get a grip, girl!
“Emasculating,” he says quietly. Amusement laces with a heavy, loaded note in his tone. “Remember the definition, omorfiá? It’s not your treat. It’ll never be your treat.”
“I like it when you speak Greek.” His hand connects with my back, guiding me toward a table in the middle of the restaurant. “What did you say?”
“You’ll have to learn Greek if you want to know what I mumble to myself. I do that a lot.”
“I’m in luck,” he breathes into the shell of my ear. “I know just the girl who’ll give me a few lessons.”
