by Sotia Lazu
You’re too pretty to be smart.
Maybe my fear’s that I’m neither, and who will I be when people find out?
You’re too pretty to be smart.
Maybe I am. A smart woman wouldn’t make such a stupid comment to Hephaestus. Did it sting him? He seems unperturbed, with his half-smirk that reaches his eyes when he glances at me. The sun is gone, and his pupils reflect the streetlights, so the sliver I see from the side shines silver. He really is stunning, with his tan skin and his bulging biceps and... What do you call that muscle under the armpit, that stretches the cotton of his T-shirt like a wing? Anyway, I want to trace that with my fingers. I want to map his entire body with my hands. But most of all, I want to hear him tell me more about himself and why he chose to drive this car, in this gravelly voice that gives me goose bumps.
I could tell him all this. Ask him to open up. Reassure him that I won’t stay in Greece long enough for it to matter.
My stomach kicks me in the throat, from the inside. May be the pizza-and-beer combo, making a repeat performance. The thought of not seeing him again sours my gut further. And implying anything he has to say may possibly not matter is simply absurd.
So I sit sideways in my seat and watch him shift gears and steer us into traffic. The buildings are squished together in this part of town, the walls painted in shades of gray. I can’t smell the sea any more. “Are we almost there?” I ask.
“Another ten minutes. Fifteen, maybe.” Hephaestus turns to me for a fleeting second before watching the road again. “I didn’t think this through. You must have plans for tonight, and you seem sober enough to face your little friends. Should I turn around?”
No. God, no. I’d rather spend the evening driving around with him than meet up with the girls for a night out on the town, or whatever else they have in mind. I manage to swallow my initial response and keep my voice cool. “That’s okay. I wanna see what this patsah is.”
He chuckles. “It’s patsa, and I may have oversold it. It does soothe the stomach, but it’s also sort of made out of it.” He blurts the last part in a single breath, tapping his abs with his hand.
I narrow my eyes at him, though he can’t see me. “Are we having trippa soup? The lining of the stomach, yes?” My grandma, bless her soul, made a delicious trippa alla romana. “Haven’t had it in years. So good.”
He swerves to the curb, ignoring the honking and shouts around us, and pulls the hand-break. When he swivels in his seat to fully face me, his eyes are huge pools of silver light. “You like tripe soup.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement. And uttered in something resembling awe.
“I love it. If I didn’t fervently oppose spending a whole day in the kitchen, I’d show you how good my trippa is.”
Hephaestus bites his lips together. A choked sound escapes him, and the scar beside his eye fans with thin laughter lines.
“What? What did I say?” I replay my last words in my head. “Trippa means something in Greek, doesn’t it?”
He scrunches his face and nods. Checking the driver’s side mirror, he shifts the car into gear.
As we start rolling forward, I ask, “So? What does it mean?”
“It sounds like our word for hole,” he says. His profile is carved into stone, but the eye I can see from where I’m sitting still sparkles with mirth.
Che due palle! I just offered to show him how good my hole is?
The laugh that bubbles up my throat surprises me, and judging from how Hephaestus half-jumps in his seat, he didn’t see it coming either. “I mean... I was talking about my grandma’s recipe for tripe.” I titter. “At least I didn’t offer to show you how good her trippa was.”
He chortles, and then we’re both howling with laughter, and this is the most carefree I’ve felt in... ever.
Tears are lacing my eyelids when we finally quiet down.
“That was refreshing.” Hephaestus’ shoulders jerk with one last chuckle.
“Yeah? If you enjoy hearing about it, imagine how you’d feel if you actually ate it.” I expect him to laugh again at my naughty double entendre, but he doesn’t.
He arches an eyebrow and I meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror. His eyes are silver again. “I’m trying really hard not to imagine that,” he says.
I hear the words clearly, but he doesn’t speak them. Maybe I infer them from the total lack of interest he’s shown me so far. Maybe I’ve not sobered up yet?
But has he shown me lack of interest? I know when someone is into me, and Hephaestus definitely is. I’d swear it on the bible. Why else would he have volunteered to spend his evening with a total stranger who landed outside his auto-repair shop?
Is he simply that nice?
Nah. Taking me to my hotel was nice. Taking me to dinner is a date. Only he’s not making any moves. Wouldn’t he make a move if he was interested, when I’ve all but thrown myself at him?
Did I scare him off?
Ugh, I’m driving myself crazy, here. Need to stop analyzing parameters, and take things one step at a time. We’re going to dinner. I’ll have to wait and see what he has in mind.
Have I mentioned I hate waiting?
“Why modeling?”
Hephaestus’ question bites into my flesh and makes me shiver. “Why not?” I toss back at him.
He takes a while to answer. Is the pause for his benefit or mine? Did he realize that implying modeling is less than any other job insults me?
“Your breakthrough was at twenty-eight.” Before my shock that he’s followed my career gets to sink in, he adds, “What I’m asking is if it was a lifelong dream and the timing was finally right, or if you just happened upon it.”
His tone holds no judgment, only curiosity. The tension bunching my shoulders ebbs. I crack my neck. Something about him makes me want to share my whole life’s story. How, growing up, I wished I was a boy so my dad would love me. How I did my best to hide that I was a girl—never let my hair grow long, wore those shapeless overalls, and learned everything there was to know about motors when my heart ached for a Barbie doll. How, when I thought he’d finally forgotten I wasn’t a son, I got boobs. Boys started looking at me, but Papa grew more distant. The lectures about how women shouldn’t be loud became more often. Education was dangerous. It gave women ideas, and they made demands. Women shouldn’t make demands.
And women definitely shouldn’t go to college.
I could tell Hephaestus all that, and he’d make me feel better. But I haven’t opened up to people I’ve known for years; I’m not about to do so to a stranger, even if his presence soothes the beast inside that never lets me be happy.
“It wasn’t my dream,” I finally say. “It was my way out.”
To my relief and disappointment, Hephaestus doesn’t ask me to elaborate.
Chapter Nine - Hephaestus
THE DOWNTOWN-ATHENS meat market, Varvakios Agora, used to buzz with life around the clock, but one crisis after another have diluted the crowds.
The loyal regulars have stuck around—older folks, mostly men, so set on their routines, time seems to have passed them by. They’re joined by a few clean-cut youths with a taste for tradition, and the occasional wannabe-influencer, so obviously out of their element, they can't help but squint dubiously at the steaming soup placed before them. Tourists give the place shots of new life in the summer, but this time of the year, it’s an early-morning heaven for anyone nursing a hangover, as tripe soup is just what the doctor ordered after a heavy night of drinking.
Laura has been quiet since she answered my question about modeling, but her jaw is no longer set in tension. I don't need to tone down my stride, for her to keep up. She walks beside me, coolly studying the mismatched clientele, her sunglasses atop her head instead of shielding her from the onlookers’ hungry gazes.
Hungry gazes? Seriously? Projecting much? as Joy might say. The only one looking at Laura like they'd eat her up is me, so I focus on our destination instead.
The best tripe soup in At
hens—or possibly the entirety of Greece—is served in a taverna nestled among butcher shops. It's after six, and the shops are closed, but the scent of meat and disinfectant permeates the atmosphere. Or that's my supernatural olfactory sense, developing in the presence of my soulmate.
Why did I bring Laura here? Is it an excuse, to spend more time with her, or am I trying to scare her away by insulting her fragile sensibilities?
For an unascended god who prides himself in knowing how things operate, I sure have very little insight in my inner-psyche workings some times.
I choose a table near the open-plan kitchen, and pull out a chair for Laura. She glides into the seat with grace I haven’t met before in this lifetime.
Huh. Where did that come from? Like I remember any other lifetime?
I plant myself in the chair across the table from her. “Don’t know if the menu is in English. I’ll translate for you.”
She shakes her head. “No need. I’ll have what you’re having.”
After seeing her nibble on a single slice of pizza, I seriously doubt she can keep up with my appetite—foodwise, at least—so I’ll get us both the tripe soup, and a portion of soutzoukakia and pasta to share, which I’ll probably enjoy on my own.
“Beer?” I ask her with a half-smile.
She laughs.
Gaia, I’m getting addicted to the sound.
“I think I’ll pass,” she says. “Are you having one?”
The way she studies me, the only possible answer is no. “I’m driving.” Though another beer or ten wouldn’t affect me in the least.
I give our order to the chipper server, and then... I don’t know what to say. I exhausted all possible subject matters on the drive here. How do I keep from making this dinner uncomfortable?
I don’t go on dates. Haven’t in a long time. There’s the occasional hookup, but I never try for more. I’m not relationship material. And hookups don’t require smalltalk.
Only this isn’t a date, and if I don’t pretend like it is, Laura and I can have fun.
“Have you been to Greece before?” Fuck, this is a date question. What will I do if she says no? Offer to show her around?
Laura picks a slice of bread from the basket the server left us, and pinches a bit of the soft inner part. Instead of popping it in her mouth, she squishes it flat between her index and thumb. “It’s my first time. Haven’t been many places outside Italy, till a couple years ago.” Her casual shrug hides sorrow.
“But the world is your oyster now.” I wish I could soothe away the sorrow. Wish I could take her all around the world.
I can. If I trap her in my life. Which I won’t.
She covers my hand with her free one, and caresses my knuckles with her thumb. Something familiar about the touch raises the hairs at the back of my neck. I know this touch, and it tastes of all-consuming love and heartbreaking betrayal at the same time.
“Don’t pity me,” she whispers. “It was largely my choice, and I don’t regret it. Besides, as you said, I get to travel now.”
I need to pull away my hand, because she’s burning me. But I was forged in fire. “It’s not pity,” I say. “I just—”
“Here are your soups.” The chipper server places our plates before us, saving me from admitting I want to know more about Laura. “And this is your skordostoubi.” She leaves a small bowl filled with the mix of garlic, vinegar, herbs, and spices beside my plate.
“Thank you,” I say, as Laura offers a mangled, “Efharisto.”
“Enjoy.” I dig in my food before she asks me to finish what I was saying before we were interrupted.
I hear her spoon clinking, and look up to see her bringing a spoonful of soup topped with a strip of cow stomach lining to her mouth. I expect a wince or grimace, but she waggles her brows at me as she wraps her lips around the spoon. She chews, swallows, and moans. Gaia, that moan! My cock stirs, and I have to focus hard on the half-pig hanging from a hook inside the window across the street, to stop picturing her moaning around my shaft.
“This is so good. Could use a little more garlic, though.” She hums and fills her mouth again. “We make it with tomato and grated cheese. Not so soupy.” She keeps humming, and it’s a sound that makes my heart feel light.
I point at the small bowl. “Add some of this. Packs a punch.” I didn’t want to stink of garlic on the drive back, but I will gladly have some if she does.
“Mmm...” She lifts the bowl and stirs half of it in her soup, before handing the rest to me. “You have some too, so I don’t need to run behind the car when you take me back to the hotel.”
“I’m not an ogre; I’d put you in the trunk.” I take the offering and add it to my dish.
“Perfect.” She hums again, and I find myself echoing her.
To my amazement, she empties her plate before I do, and wipes it clean with her bread. “You were right. I feel so much better.”
“Is there room for more? Not soup.”
Her eyes glint playfully. “Dessert?”
Didn’t think of that. “Maybe later. First, there’s our version of pasta with meatballs.” When she gives me wide eyes, I grin. “You said you’d have what I would.” My facial muscles are shocked by how much exercise they’re getting today.
“I’ll eat you under the table, buddy.” She smacks her hand over her mouth. “That was supposed to be a wordplay on drinking you under the table, not an indecent proposal.” Her cheeks glow red.
I choke on a soup-laugh combo, hard enough to have liquid threatening to come out of my nostrils. My dick didn’t get the joke, though, and it’s poking at the underside of the table. I shift in my seat and shake my head. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
She lets out a self-deprecating grunt. “You bring out the idiot in me.”
Our pasta arrives, and I get to experience more of Laura’s moaning and humming and sucking sounds. The food is good—great, even—but I can’t focus on the flavors bursting on my tongue when my senses are filled with her. She looks, smells, and sounds divine.
What does she taste like?
“Oh my God.” She puts down her fork and stares into my eyes. “I’ll gain ten pounds if I eat like this all week.” Her face falls. “But I guess the rest of my meals with the girls will be lean protein and salad.”
I could offer to show her more of what Greek cuisine has to offer, starting with a thousand different pies, but this is a one-time thing. After today, I won’t be seeing Laura Rossi again.
Which is what Denny said about Moira, before she was hired to work at his bar. And now they’re happily bonded.
I shoo away the unwanted thought.
Moira may be happy with him, because what woman wouldn’t be into that guy? I’m not hashtag-boyfriend-material. Today is the only day I’m allowing myself to be in Laura’s company.
So I’ll make it count. “If you’ll be in food-hell starting tomorrow, we need to make today memorable. Ice cream?”
She purses her lips. “I’ve heard good things about your galakto... something.”
“Galaktoboureko?”
“Yes!” She beams at me, and I’ll drive another twenty minutes to get her the best galaktoboureko in Greece. Hell, I’ll drive five hours to Thessaloniki, to get her the proper bougatsa, if she likes cream-filled pastry and looks at me like that.
But first we’ll have the yogurt and sweet carrot preserve we’re treated to when the bill comes.
Laura reaches for her purse, but I stop her. “Coming here was my idea. I invited you—my treat.”
There’s that glimmer of mischief in her eyes again. “Then dessert’s on me.”
Chapter Ten - Laura
WE APPARENTLY NEED to move to another location. Hint. Nudge. Sizzling-hot Hephaestus has finally stopped pretending there’s nothing between us.
The sweetness of the syrupy glazed fruit still on my lips, I try not to look overly eager, as I get up and let him lead me to the car. When he turned me down before, I thought he was
n’t into me, but maybe he just doesn’t like the woman taking the lead. Or he’s the type that needs one date—even over garlicky soup—before he feels comfortable getting more close and personal. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to know someone better before he gives in to her indecent proposals.
And boy, do I want to propose some indecency to him...
Can’t believe tripe of all things can be an aphrodisiac, but even with a full stomach, I feel my body react to his every touch. The brush of his knuckles against my palm, when he reaches for the door handle before I close my fingers over it, sends whispers of desire grazing down my spine. As he slips behind the wheel, his knee bumps mine and I shiver. He touches my shoulder by accident, as he’s placing his hand on my chair to look behind us. Might as well have grabbed my boob. My nipples perk up, begging for attention, but he reverses out of our spot and we’re off.
What does he have in mind? I wouldn’t mind a quick fuck in the car, though I doubt I can unfold my talent in the confined space. He definitely won’t have room to move, and I’d like to see his moves.
Is he taking us to my hotel? Can’t have the girls listening in, and I don’t know how close our rooms are. “So where are we going?” I ask playfully, adding a lip-bite for emphasis. Not that he’s looking my way.
“Galyfianakis. They make the best galaktoboureko in Athens. If you’re only having it once, you need to try theirs.” He pauses and rubs his chin, oblivious to my disappointment.
Or maybe he’s playing me? He has to know I don’t need to eat anything else. Except him.
“Sei prefers Kosmikon. Maybe we should get a piece from each place, to compare,” he says.
“Seriously?” I ask.
He glances at me for the briefest of seconds. “You don’t have to eat both. We’ll share.”
“You’re honestly taking me to a pâtisserie? I—” thought you wanted to have your wicked way with me.
