Finding You

by Jo Watson

  I followed Mr. Greek God as he parted the people on the street like Moses did the Red Sea. My heavy handbag was digging into my shoulder; I had to keep adjusting it. It felt like I walked past a hundred souvenir shops in the space of a few feet. They were selling everything from bags to hats, hand-painted ceramic plates depicting Greek scenes, and little statuettes of windmills. Racks and rows and walls of postcards lined the small streets, too—who could possibly buy that many postcards?

  I’d never really understood souvenirs. They seemed like the wrong thing to give someone after you’ve come back from a holiday.

  “Here, have a set of frosted shot glasses with the Parthenon painted on them to remind you that I was away sunbathing in the tropics while you were at home, working, in the bitter winter cold.”

  There is something vaguely antagonistic about them. Mmmm, perhaps my mother would like that little plaster bust of Athena? Dimitri wove through the crowd so stealthily that it was hard to keep up. “Hey. Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I hate surprises!” I called after him. Which was true. Ever since I’d gone over for one of my family’s usual Thursday-night dinners and found a young, upwardly mobile lawyer sitting across from me. My mother’s doing.

  The dinner had gone horrifically. In between my mother’s hideously obvious attempts to get Gabriel, the upwardly mobile man in question, and me talking, he’d stared at my twin sisters all night. My mother had been about as subtle as Kim Kardashian’s naked ass on a magazine cover. It would have been preferable if she’d just come out and told him she was already buying diapers for our firstborn.

  “So you know Jane graduated cum laude.”

  Gabriel looks at my sisters and flashes them a smile.

  “So you know Jane’s just bought herself a darling little apartment in Rosebank, with laminate flooring.” She winks at me.

  Gabriel puffs his chest out in a manly display.

  “So you know Jane is a very sought-after dentist.”

  Gabriel bites his bottom lip with lust-filled eyes. Gabriel is officially a pervert.

  This was confirmed right after dinner when he’d asked both of my sisters out on a date. Both of them!

  “You’re going to like this surprise,” Dimitri called out, snapping me back to reality. After what felt like another five minutes of arm wrestling my way through the crowd, ducking under canopies of bougainvillea, and nearly tripping over two cats, Dimitri stopped.

  “We’re here.” He waved his hand and indicated a small street food vendor tucked between the shops. I looked up at the sign.

  “Dimitri’s Gyros?” I looked from the sign to Dimitri. “So you’re a tour guide and you sell food?” (I wasn’t going to let on that I suspected he was a model, too, for fear his ego might grow large enough to engulf the entire island and possibly the mainland.)

  “I told you everyone in Greece is named Dimitri.”

  I seriously hoped that wasn’t the case.

  “Chicken or beef or pork?” he asked happily.

  “What?”

  He pointed at something and my eyes followed. Mmmm, I wasn’t so sure about this. Giant slabs of meat on large poles spun around while a man cut chunks off them with what looked like a pirate’s knife. And then there were the bowls of hummus. There was enough of the stuff to use as cement and build a bloody mansion. It did have a similar texture, and I’m sure when it dried would be just as effective at holding bricks together in perpetuity. French fries bubbled away in oil to my left, large carby pitas were piled on top of one another to my right, and feta, fried halloumi, and little brown meatball-looking things were everywhere.

  Illegal foods. All of them. My mother had suggested a diet at fourteen when she realized I was the kind of person who could convert lettuce into fat cells at a disturbing rate. Her greatest fear was that my reprobate fat cells might go ballistic and take over.

  “Sorry, but I don’t eat that kind of thing.” I tried to sound polite. I didn’t want to offend him, especially not when he looked so damn happy to have brought me here.

  “But have you ever tried a gyro? You haven’t lived yet until you’ve eaten a gyro on the streets of Fira!” He sounded so enthusiastic, I almost felt bad.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know you don’t eat it?”

  “Well, first, I don’t eat fried foods or carbohydrates. I avoid gluten at all costs; we all know it’s basically from the devil. And second, I don’t eat Greek food.”

  “You don’t eat Greek food?” He almost shouted that, and his brow furrowed in what could only be described as total confusion. “Are you sure?” he asked dubiously.

  “Positive.” I nodded.

  “But you’re in Greece!”

  “Like I said, I’m not really here to sample the local delicacies and take in the sights and smells. I’m here to find someone.”

  “Dimitri?” It sounded like a very loaded question.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that this isn’t the Dimitri you’re looking for?” He indicated the sign again.

  “Because the Dimitri I’m looking for doesn’t sell food, or whatever this is!” At least I didn’t think he did. But a lot could have changed in twenty-five years.

  “So what does he do?”

  I really didn’t want to have this conversation now. This had nothing to do with him. In fact, who the hell did he think he was asking me these kinds of personal questions anyway? Not even someone as good-looking as him could get away with this. I walked over to the counter in a deliberate attempt to kill the conversation, get this all over with so I could go to my hotel and start my search.

  “Please can I have some lettuce and tomato in a pita? And two Coke Zeros.” I hadn’t drunk a Coke Zero in days and I could feel it. (I think they put something addictive into those things.)

  The man behind the counter looked at me. Blank face.

  “No meat?” he asked.

  “No meat, thanks!”

  “No hummus?” Confused face.

  “No hummus!”

  “Tziki?” He sounded desperate.

  “No.”

  “Taramasalata?” Exasperated.

  “Negative.” (Now I was getting irritated.)

  The man said something to Dimitri in Greek; it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was saying from his tone. I took my salad-filled pita and watched as another one was being stuffed full of pork and grease. What followed was another embarrassing moment in which I’d forgotten I still had no local currency and Dimitri was forced to pay. I hated the idea that he’d bought me lunch; it felt way too friendly. Besides, I didn’t want to feel like I owed him anything.

  “Thanks for lunch,” I said when we finally reached the car again.

  “It was my pleasure. Besides, I wouldn’t call that lunch.” He looked down at my pita in a judgy way.

  “Trust me. I can’t afford to eat Greek food. You have no clue what will happen to my thigh… never mind.” I went back to picking at the lettuce and tomato inside the pita.

  It wasn’t long before we’d arrived at my new hotel and were standing outside with my bags once more. My heart started thumping wildly at the possibility of another kiss on the cheek from him. I put my free hand behind my back in case it did something awful, like reach out and pull his clothes off.

  “Can I help you with your bags?”

  It seemed like a rather redundant question considering the porter that had already rushed to my side. So much more civilized than the previous establishment.

  “No thanks. I think it’s being taken care of.”

  “Oh. Yes.” He almost looked disappointed? “Well, what about the one you’re carrying? It seems very heavy.”

  I shrugged my shoulder. It hurt. “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, well, like I said if you need anything… anything.” He took another card out of his pocket and started handing it over to me.

  I blocke
d it with my hand. “I’ve already got one.” I patted my bag.

  “Take another… just in case.”

  “In case what?” I asked.

  “In case you change your mind and decide to eat Greek food.” He flashed me another smile.

  “Wrap me in a pita and have sex with me. Sex. Now. Sex.”

  He stepped toward me. My heart stopped pumping. He leaned in close, pulled my hand from behind my back, and placed his card in the center of my palm. My nerve endings prickled, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  “Just in case.” He repeated the words. They sounded so loaded.

  In case what? In case I decide to lose all common sense, judgment, control, my mind (although that was already up for debate), and call you for a midnight beach romp? I’ll be sure to bring my watch so I can take note of how long it takes you to make me start screaming your name in wild ecstasy… Oh God, that sounded good!

  I took a large step back. He took a large step forward. Back. Forward. Then he leaned in again. Holy crap! He was coming in for that double-cheek kiss again, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remain cool and calm and controlled this time. Only he didn’t. He did something far, far more odd and unsettling. He pulled my sunglasses off, placed them in the same hand as the card, and then closed my fingers around them. He squeezed my hand shut while looking into my eyes in a way that rattled me to my very core.

  My head started spinning and suddenly I felt a tad unsteady. I hoped to hell that I wasn’t about to be knocked off my feet by my raging hormones and fall into his arms. He gave my hand one last squeeze, and then… he was gone!

  What the hell did that mean? You can’t just take off a person’s glasses, put them in her hands, stare into her eyes meaningfully, and then mysteriously walk away without a word. What the hell was he playing at?

  And why was it so hard to keep myself from falling for it?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I would imagine it’s the same kind of joy you get from winning the lotto while simultaneously having the best sex of your life. That’s what walking into the hotel room felt like anyway. Everything was carved entirely into the rock face and whitewashed. It looked more like a cave than an actual hotel room. All the other décor was blue, and everything looked so crisp and clean and sanitary. I put my handbag down and rubbed my shoulder, which was no doubt dented. This place was perfect. I could see why it cost at least five times more than the other place. But it was worth every single cent!

  Two big blue shutter doors dominated the other end of the room, and I felt compelled to open them. And I was so glad I had, because when I did, I stepped into my own private paradise. A small, secluded balcony was covered in a riot of colors. Bright-pink bougainvillea wrapped itself around the pillars and dangled from the overhang above my head. A small rim-flow pool stretched out in front of me, and from where I was standing I could barely see where the pool ended and the sea began.

  From my private terrace I could gaze out across the water. It looked like it stretched in front of me forever. I breathed in deeply, it was all so… and then I sneezed. I looked up and found a cat sitting on the wall staring at me. It made a hissing noise and then disappeared. Just when I thought this place was starting to grow on me, I was reminded of how allergic I actually was to Greece. I hated cats almost as much as I hated hummus. Cats were from the devil. Their eyes glowed at night, for heaven’s sake. My phone rang and I went back into the room. I saw the word flashing on the screen from a few yards away and sighed.

  MOM. MOM. MOM.

  I hadn’t responded to her millions of messages yet. I was actually impressed it had taken her this long to call me. Technology was just another weapon my mother had added to her armory for meddling in my life.

  One of the worst days of my life was the day she got a smartphone. She’d mastered the art of texting, and that was still okay. But when she moved on to WhatsApp and emojis, and got herself a Facebook profile, my life came to an abrupt end. The last straw had been when she’d started sharing pictures of grumpy baby animals with me and sent me one of those “1 Like = 1 Prayer” things. She wasn’t even religious… and she didn’t even like animals!

  “Mom,” I said into the phone.

  “God, Jane, where have you been? I’ve been sick with worry wondering whether you’d been kidnapped.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, Mother.”

  “Well, you never know. I mean look what happened to Lilly, basically assaulted in Thailand and rustled away to some debaucherous party.”

  “Mom, she wasn’t assaulted, and she and Damien are engaged.”

  “Fine. Fine.” She gave a resigned sigh, as if she was giving up, but I knew better. “So what’s it like there? Are the men as gorgeous as they say?”

  “Um…” I started to stammer just thinking about him.

  “Because I’ve read so many romance books where some gorgeous billionaire Greek oil tycoon sweeps the heroine off her feet…”

  “Mom!” I chided her. “Stop.”

  “Fine, fine.” She was very fond of saying fine. “But promise me that just in case you meet a gorgeous Greek billionaire you will have a wax. You know how you can get. And a pedicure. You don’t want him thinking you have hobbit feet.”

  “Mom, stop it!” I was very glad when my phone started beeping with another call coming in.

  “Mom, hang on, I have another call.”

  “If it’s your father please tell him that I put the roast on an hour ago and I expect him home on time.”

  I glanced down at the screen. It was Dimitri.

  “It’s not Dad.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s just… it’s the tour guide. I’m sure he’s just calling to check if the hotel’s okay or something.”

  “He? Darling, please be careful of tour guides. Greek gigolos, all of them. Remember what happened to your biological mother. But a shipping tycoon…”

  “Mom, I’m not looking to bed—or whatever else you think I’m going to do with the tour guide. And I doubt Greek shipping magnates would want to go out with me anyway.”

  “Maybe if you just put on one of those lipsticks you’re so fond of collecting.” She said it in that pseudo-sweet voice she used when she was trying to disguise the fact she was actually insulting me.

  “Maybe I don’t want a boyfriend,” I snapped back. Thirty seconds into a phone call with her and we were already there. That place where she was complaining about some part of me and I was defending my right not to have a boyfriend. Why did we always have to go round and round in these circles?

  “Everyone wants to be loved, Jane, even busy career girls like you.”

  Something about her statement ground me to a stop.

  “I’ll take it under advisement. I’ve got to go. Okay, bye.”

  “Wait!” she yelled. “I just wanted to say one more thing.”

  I sighed down the phone. “What, Mom?”

  “Good luck finding him. I hope when you do, you’ll finally find what you’ve been looking for for so long.” Her tone was soft and, dare I say it, empathetic.

  “Oh!” I was stunned by her statement. That was the last thing I’d expected to hear from her. I knew she and my dad had nothing against me seeking out my biological parents—it’s what almost all adoptive kids do—but was she actually showing some insight there? Some actual I understand what you’re going through insight? She’d never understood me. Or tried to, for that matter. The fact that I was adopted, never fit in, and stood out like a sore thumb was something that had never been spoken about while I was growing up. It was as if—to them, anyway—I’d never been adopted at all. The issue was totally under the rug.

  “Okay, Mom. Bye.” I hung up quickly, feeling awkward from the conversation we’d just had. At least I’d missed Dimitri’s call now, probably a good thing.

  All I wanted to do was have a bath. I peeled my clothes off, freed my mop of rebel hair, and stood in front of the mirror. There was nothing I liked about my body
at all. I’d long since given up on the expectation that I might have a dormant gene lying in wait, ready to spring to life making everything a little smaller (especially my thighs) and blonder and blue eyed. Sometimes I looked in the mirror and was overwhelmed by this feeling that I was wearing some kind of disguise that I could take off to reveal my true self, only I wasn’t.

  I had no idea what my biological parents looked like, but clearly I hadn’t inherited very favorable genes. I had the waist of a walrus and the tangled, matted, curly hair of a black poodle. My boobs were a large, good size, though. My mother was fond of pointing this out—they were my best assets, “it’s just such a pity you don’t dress to accentuate them.” And I hated to admit it, but my mother was right: I could do with a little bikini wax. Another beep on my phone made me turn around. I reached for it.

  Check the side pocket of ur bag. Just in case you change your mind. Mom

  I rolled my eyes and reached in. I pulled out a package labeled CARE PACKAGE. Although I doubted very much that this care package contained tins of canned beef and dehydrated food rations for war-torn starving millions. How the hell did she even manage to slip this in my bag?

  I opened it.

  1 x pink bikini (Way, way too push-uppy in the bust area for my liking—and were those sequins?)

  1 x romance book (Stranded on Santorini: The Greek Billionaire’s Virgin Bride. Tamed by the Hot Greek Tycoon Series: Book 8)

  I turned the book over in my hands. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, the fact that my mother had packed this for me, or that there were eight books in the series. The man on the cover was hot, I grant you. But he didn’t hold a candle, nay not even a tiny flickering matchstick flame, to Dimitri. My temperature rose at the sudden thought of him. I could really do with a swim, but I hadn’t packed a bathing suit, since I’d had no intention of swimming, so I guess my mother’s little gift would come in handy after all. And thankfully the plunge pool on the terrace was completely private, so no one would ever need to see me in this horrendous pink thing. I took my underwear off and maneuvered myself into the bikini; it took a lot of “lifting” and “separating” to get the girls to even fit into the cups. My stomach was still growling, though, so I quickly rang room service for a salad, which would be delivered in twenty minutes. Just enough time for a dip.