by Leylah Attar
A deep rumbling started in Alex’s belly.
Holy hell. The speed bump is about to launch into the stratosphere.
But it turned into loud, throaty laughter.
“What?” If I were his penis, I’d be mortified for showing up uninvited to a pool party.
“You’re allowed to breathe, you know.” His infuriating dimple made an appearance. “I apologize. Wholeheartedly. It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. What I won’t apologize for is the fact that I find you wildly attractive, Moti. From the moment I saw you—your hands gripping the railing like a bird about to take its first flight. When you showed up in my cabin, I didn’t know how I was going to handle being so close to you. Then that dance I walked in on? I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. And now, with your body wrapped around mine. You have no idea what you feel like in my arms right now. But I get it. I know it’s Nikos you’re interested in.”
My brain was still trying to process wildly attractive.
I held a certain image of myself, and it didn’t always coincide with the mirror, let alone Alex’s words. A lot of times, the image wasn’t kind. Childhood taunts echoed in my head.
MoTi! MoTi! Fatty! Chubby!
I’d talked a big game on this trip. I figured I’d go after Nikos, he’d realize we had a connection, we’d fall in love, and live happily ever after. In reality, I felt inadequate around Nikos, I had to keep trying to be sexy, smart, fun, interesting. But with Alex, I was all those things effortlessly. No facade, no pretenses.
And yet, all the signs pointed to Nikos, from the moment I had been born. My natal chart said so, Ma Anga said so, Dolly said so. It was as if the Greek gods had orchestrated a cosmic game, put me in the center of it, and placed bets on what I would do.
This is who you’re supposed to be with, said Zeus and Hera, holding up a marble bust of Nikos. These two head honchos of Greek mythology threw their son off the top of Mount Olympus because they didn’t like the way he looked. You didn’t want to incur their wrath.
Aphrodite, Goddess of love, clapped her hands. Ah, but what you really want to do right now is kiss Alex, don’t you? You really have to watch this gal pal. It was her husband who’d been thrown off Mount Olympus, so if it’s happily-ever-after that you’re gunning for, proceed with caution.
Always listen to your mother, Hestia piped in. She was the goddess of family and domesticity. She deserved a lot of kudos. Not many of the gods practiced what they preached, but Hestia stuck to her guns, and probably listened to her mother. Hence, she remained a virgin.
Dionysus, the Greek deity of wine and ecstasy, raised his glass. Pffft. Eat, kiss, and be merry! Pirates once seized him, thinking he was too incapacitated to fight back. Dionysus filled their ship with vines and turned them into dolphins. Moral of the story? Don’t mess with a Greek god even when he’s drunk. Also, he gave the kind of advice you could really get onboard with.
Back on earth, I was still clinging to Alex and still confused as hell. On one hand, my insides were clamoring for his touch. On the other, was the legacy I was supposed to fulfill. Was it fair to write Nikos off, based on one night in Mykonos? He’d brushed me off to cater to Olympia Aravani, but celebrities expected him to drop everything when they pulled into his club. He’d messaged me a few times since then, updating me on the situation. If that brawl hadn’t broken out—a brawl I’d initiated—Nikos would be on board and who knows where things would be heading between us? Would I ever be able to look Dolly in the eye if I wrote it off before it even began?
Alex took my silence for my admission. That it really was Nikos I was interested in. He let go of me, all signs of arousal tamed.
“You should head back inside,” he said.
I felt his eyes on me as he followed me out of the pool. Drying myself off, I turned to find him in his usual spot, gazing at distant lights.
“Are you coming in?” I asked.
“In a bit.” His towel was slung low around his hips, highlighting the V-shaped line below his abs. He wasn’t giving me the cold shoulder or sulking. Alex was too self-assured for that. He enjoyed his own company, the same way I did. That’s why he came up here every night—to think and dream.
I want to be one of those lights—somewhere by the water, where people can eat and share and connect. I want to be a link in a story that is as old as time.
Alex had a dream. He had talent and drive and ambition. Every night, under the light of the moon, he cast his net toward the heavens to catch the stars.
When I tiptoed into the galley the next morning, the first rays of light were just starting to fan out over the horizon. I paused at the door, watching Alex remove something from the oven. Steam rose and condensed on the windowpanes as the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air. I smiled as he took off his shark mitts and placed them, teeth up, on the counter. He moved between the stove and counter, reaching for milk, scraping seeds off a vanilla bean, wiping his hands before mashing an avocado.
He cooked in an almost meditative state, earbuds in place, turning simple things into sacred rituals. Cracking an egg, grating cheese, boiling water. He picked through a basket of red peppers and held one up to the window, admiring the way the rising sun reflected off its skin.
I see you, he said to me. He saw things people missed, like how a pepper turns bright and beautiful when you hold it to the light, when you take the time to appreciate its wholeness—bruised bits and all. Alex didn’t just cook. He poured all his attention into each act, each ingredient. Passion flowed from his heart and through his hands, giving him the magic ability to transform food into emotion. Onions into chocolate. How could it leave anyone immune and unaffected?
I would’ve stood there watching him all day, if he hadn’t noticed me.
“Kalimera, Moti.” He unplugged his earbuds and poured me a cup of coffee. “You’re up early.”
“I won’t be around for the rest of the day or tomorrow, so I thought I’d come in early to help.” We were midway through the cruise, heading toward Santorini. Isabelle initially chose the picturesque island for the wedding, but Thomas’s father was born in Hydra, and he’d insisted they have the wedding there. Not to be outdone, Isabelle arranged for everyone to spend one night in a rented villa in Santorini, so she could still get the dream photos she wanted for her wedding album.
“No swimming lesson tonight.” I sipped my coffee and took over the cutting board. “And you’ll finally have the cabin to yourself.”
“I can finally watch porn in my bed?” Alex looked up from the breakfast cards. He was using a red sharpie to work his way through them.
“Whatever.” I flushed at the flashback of Alex’s hard chest pressed against mine in the pool. “Just don’t use mine for any of your extracurricular activities.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know I won’t be around either.”
“Oh?” For some reason, I had to know exactly where Alex was spending the night, and with whom.
“Since you’re all away until tomorrow, Captain Bailey’s letting the crew roam wild and free.”
“You’re staying overnight in Santorini too?”
“No, I’m going here.” He pulled out a cookbook from the shelf and flipped it open to reveal a folded piece of parchment paper. Inside was a beautifully pressed white flower—fragile and delicate, looking like it was picked early in the morning, with its petals just reaching out to the sun.
“Folegandros.” Alex held it up for me. “It’s where I was born—raw and rocky, with cliffs and caves, and an unforgiving terrain. But the flowers still find a way to grow. My mother loved that about them. The white ones were her favorite. We always had bouquets of wildflowers around the house. She picked this on the day she died.”
Sunlight filtered through the paper-thin petals as Alex twirled it slowly. It wasn’t just a flower—it was a time, a place, a feeling—suspended on a still-green stem. I could almost feel the moment she plucked it, not knowing it might be the last white flower
she ever picked. I gazed at it in silence, overcome by its beauty and tragedy. Then, just as reverently as he had retrieved it, Alex placed it back between the parchment paper and returned the book on the shelf.
“Did your mother give you this book?” I ran my fingers over the spine. It was old and thick, the cover stained with use. “Did she teach you how to cook?” Maybe the magic of Alex’s food had been passed down from generation to generation, a secret family tradition that—
“Cooking was not my mother’s forte.” Alex smiled. “In fact, my father and I did everything we could to keep her out of the kitchen.”
I chuckled. Well, there goes that theory.
“This was my first cookbook.” He tapped the cover. “It was a gift from our neighbor. She was a bitter old soul. After my mother died, I spent all my time outside, raising hell. I kept getting into trouble with Mrs. Tavoulari. One day, she was trying to take a nap and threw this book at me from her kitchen window. I was fourteen. I’d never been off the island. I opened the book and suddenly, a whole world was out there—things I’d never seen or tasted or imagined. I spent hours looking over the photos. When I went to return the book, Mrs. Tavoulari told me I could keep it, provided I made something from it every day. She gave me a small blue bowl, told me to fill it, and bring it to her as soon as it was ready. The book was mine as long as I kept that bowl going. So, every day after school, instead of stirring up trouble, I was in the kitchen. She was a smart one—she kept me busy, got her nap, and a meal out of it.”
“And you learned how to cook.”
“This book taught me a lot of things. Cooking wasn’t one of them. Sure, I learned to follow instructions. I learned the basics. But the most important thing I learned is that it’s a privilege to cook for someone. What passes through your hands is received by their senses and becomes a part of them. It took me a while to understand that.
“At first, I picked dishes I wanted to eat, or that were easy to make. Then, as I watched Mrs. Tavoulari eat, I wondered about her family. She had no photos on the walls. No one came to visit. It was probably because she was so cranky. No matter what I made, she complained. Too much salt. Not enough salt. Not the right texture. She was annoying as hell.” Alex chuckled as he plated a stack of pancakes and topped them with berries and powdered sugar.
“One day, I was sweeping walnut shells off her floor. They were everywhere. She never bothered with a bowl—just pounded them with an old hammer and left the shells lying around. I found a whole bunch of walnuts that had rolled away intact. I took them home and made her a walnut cake. Things started turning around that day. For the first time, Mrs. Tavoulari said nothing. She finished the blue bowl and asked if there was more. I realized I’d been cooking for me the whole time, not her. The more attention I paid to the things she liked, the more she opened up. She started savoring every dish and looking forward to my visits. One evening, she opened the door before I knocked, and she was smiling. Beaming. The dusty curtains were gone, the floor was clean, and a hairdresser had been in to cut her hair. All for a little thought, a little care, and a little love in the kitchen. I’ve taken this book with me on every charter to remind me of the transformative power of food. And of home.”
Alex’s magic. It wasn’t the kind Ma Anga practiced. His book had no spells or incantations. It was more powerful—a white flower and echoes of walnut shells caught between its pages. Every story has a beginning, and I loved Alex’s.
“You’re heading home then?” I asked. “Tonight?”
He turned around and glanced at the potatoes I was grating.
“You should soak them in ice water when they’re done,” he said.
He had a habit of inspecting everything I did and then adding his two cents worth.
These are not uniform, Moti. They won’t cook evenly.
Don’t touch that! You have lemon on your fingers.
I said dice the tomatoes, not hack them. This is a massacre.
I rolled my eyes, but secretly daydreamed about him issuing other orders.
Lick it, Moti. You know you want to.
“Moti?”
“Huh?” My cheeks flamed as Alex interrupted my Fifty-Shades-Of-Kitchen-Scenarios.
“You want a lick?”
Crap. Did I say that out loud?
I turned around slowly and found him holding the beaters he’d used to whip the frosting. Relieved I wasn’t as tuned-out as I’d thought, I jumped on his offering.
“And yes, I’m heading to Folegandros tonight.”
“Long way to go?” I swiped the frosting off the metal.
“About an hour from Santorini, on the…uh…” He trailed off as I sucked on my finger.
“On the what?” I stared at him with round eyes and a round mouth. Chef Alexandros was running his own Fifty-Shades-Of-Kitchen-Scenario, and that emboldened me. Making him forget what he was saying made me flush with power. It also made me ridiculously giddy—the high of your crush crushing right back at you. Only, it was more than a crush. I really liked Alex. I liked him inside and out. If I let it, this moment could catch fire. Alex’s gaze sweeping over my mouth was like a match striking flammable lips.
“You were saying?” I dropped the beaters into the sink and started washing them.
“Yeah.” The apple in Alex’s neck bobbed as he cleared his throat. “Santorini to Folegandros is about an hour on the fast ferry. I told my father I’d have dinner with him tonight. I’m at sea so often, I don’t get to see him much.” He pulled down the breakfast cards and checked his watch.
As if on cue, Hannah arrived. “Great,” she exclaimed, surveying all the trays. “I’ll start serving breakfast. The guests are just starting to make their way to…” She paused when she saw me. “Good morning, Moti. What are you doing here?”
I was elbow-deep in grated potatoes. There was no denying I was helping Alex prep the food.
“Chef Alexandros,” Captain Bailey entered the galley, holding a slip of paper. “I’m approving the provisions for…”
Now both Captain Bailey and Hannah were staring at me.
“Hannah, you were about to get breakfast going?”
“Yes, Captain Bailey.” Hannah looked from Captain Bailey to me to Alex before grabbing two trays. “I’m on it.”
Captain Bailey’s eyebrows did not resume their normal cruising altitude after Hannah left. “Chef Alexandros? You have one of our guests helping you prepare meals?”
I jumped in before he could answer. “I asked Chef Alexandros for some cooking lessons. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a pain to have around.”
True story, considering I’d thrown out the broth he’d been saving yesterday, thinking I was being helpful by cleaning the stockpot.
“Chef Alexandros has been really accommodating. I hope it’s not a problem? I’m learning so much and I find it very therapeutic.” I grated the rest of the potato I was holding. Therapeutic, my ass. I hated grating anything—my knuckles were in constant fear. But I gave the captain a big smile. If you crinkle your eyes when you smile, you can come across as sincere.
Captain Bailey eyed Alex and me. “Roommates, and now kitchen-mates. How is the situation with your aunt and uncle?”
“Still the same,” I said.
She lingered a little longer, then handed Alex the slip of paper she brought. “You’re doing a great job, Chef Alexandros. I’ll have that letter of recommendation for you at the end of the charter. You shouldn’t have any trouble landing the Kiriakis gig.”
Then, as she turned to leave, she paused, looked at me, and added, “Just don’t mess things up, Chef.”
I held my breath as our yacht glided into the harbor. Santorini was a mountain of rocks rising from the sea. Cliffs of striated lava towered around us, a reminder we were sailing into a giant, submerged crater—a dormant but active volcano. From a distance, the ridges appeared capped with snow but were really sprawling villages and towns clinging to the edges of the caldera. Santorini was a study in contrasts—white buildi
ngs, blue windows, jagged rocks, and soft domed roofs.
“Come on, come on.” Isabelle flapped her list in our faces.
It was Photo Shoot Day for her and Thomas. Teri was in charge of makeup, Fia was taking the pictures, and I was the umbrella-holder. Isabelle’s list was of all the spots we had to hit before the sun set. The Three Bells, The Blue Dome, The Cross, The Castle, The Lighthouse, Red Beach, Black Beach, White Beach. Holding Ice-Cream Cones (don’t forget to take the rings), Veil Blowing In The Wind (get Teri and Moti to hold), With Donkey (if well behaved and not smelly).
The list went on, all capitalized, which meant it was nonnegotiable. Thomas took it in his stride as he lugged Isabelle’s bag of props and outfits out of the cable car that we took to the town of Fira. We skipped the donkey rides that carried tourists up the steep incline. There were at least six hundred steps on the path. I’d be smelly too if I had to go up and down it all day, in the blistering heat.
It didn’t take long for Isabelle to deviate from her list. Who could blame her? Perched atop the cliffs, overlooking azure-blue water, every backstreet and arched doorway begged for a click. Swimming pools—the size of bathtubs were squeezed into the most impossible of spaces. We spent so much time off-course, by the time we got to the spots Isabelle really wanted to capture, lines of people waited ahead of us.
While Teri fussed over Isabelle’s hair, Thomas crossed out half the locations on the list.
“Half an hour here, which means we’ll never get to this. Or this. And if you want to make it to the castle for sunset, we’ll have to skip the Red Beach. And the White Beach.” He waited until Isabelle agreed, then gave me a wink.
