My Greek SEAL

by Sabrina Devonshire

  “Here, let me help you.” Libby shakes her head as she leans over the side of the boat and reaches for my arm. “You need to step more carefully. That move was a bloody wreck. If you can’t even board the rib without going overboard, I don’t know what you’ll do out on the big boat when we’re in rough seas.”

  I know answering her reprimand will only prolong the agony, but I feel I owe this safety conscious guide an apology. “Don’t worry. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  She grips my wrist tight. Her bulky arm muscles flex as she hauls me out of the water and she presses her lips together, but doesn’t grimace. At least rescuing me wasn’t a major strain for her sturdy, strong body.

  Bending my knees, I lower my butt down on the curved rubber rim of the boat. Water drips from my hat and hair and my drenched wrap clings like a cocoon to my body. I straighten the sunglasses that by some miracle remain perched over my ears after the plunge.

  Libby waits for five others to board the boat before pushing away from the dock. I force my gaze to remain on the gray rubber floor of the boat. I won’t spare a glance toward the hot Greek guy laughing at my expense. There’s no ambivalence on my part about what I hope he will do next. I hope he climbs into the sailboat moored to the dock or turns around and walks back up that steep stone staircase. I hope to hell he’s not swimming with us.

  If only I’d holed up in my apartment and imbibed on Chardonnay and ice cream instead of flying to Greece and opening myself up to all this public humiliation. I’m not up to this.

  Behind my sunglasses, tears well and threaten to drip down my face. This is so awkward. I don’t want to be here. I feel far too vulnerable and out of sorts. I long for safety. I want to cling to it and hang on for dear life.

  I pluck the drenched hat from my head and wring it out quickly over the side before placing it back on my head. I exhale audibly, clench my jaw and vow to feign calm and composed.

  “Hey, love, don’t let what just happened ruin your day,” says Maryann in her crisp British accent. “Your belongings will dry in the sun in a jiffy and your swimming costume is going to get wet anyway once we do our first swim.”

  I glance up to meet Maryann’s gaze. Smile lines radiate from the corners of her eyes. Her expression suggests a warmth and acceptance I need to see. Even better, everyone else on the boat is acting like it never happened. Maryann’s husband, Randy, is engaged in an animated conversation with Scott, an older man with a graying head of hair and mustache and a stretched out Speedo. His wife, Sherry has her head down and is fumbling around in her dry bag for something.

  “I guess you’re right.” I wonder how old Maryann is. Forty-five perhaps?

  “Here we are. I would like you all to meet the Ionian Goddess.” Libby steers the boat up alongside the weathered, wood-hulled cruiser—the old battered boat I feared we would be boarding—and throws a rope up to Dmitri, who we were told would be the lead guide and boat captain. I wait for the others to exit before climbing the ladder myself. Maryann, Randy, Margie and the Londoners whose names I can’t remember peer over the side anxiously as if they expect me to do a splashdown encore.

  I wave my hand at them in irritation. “Don’t worry, I’m on top of this.” It’s a cinch to climb the ladder and step in the boat with grace when the surfaces aren’t slick and my gaze isn’t fastened on some gorgeous Greek guy’s chest. Once I’m standing on two feet on the deck of the Ionian Goddess, my audience disperses and Libby pushes back from the boat and drives away to shuttle over more passengers. I try not to think about how I’ll react if Mr. Hot Body shows up soon.

  I follow Maryann toward the front of the boat. She cranes her head around and waves her hand. “Come on up here with us. There are nice places to sit on the bow. Plus you’ll get the best view of the islands.”

  Six large blue beanbag chairs are neatly placed around the edge of the bow deck, just inside the railing. They look cushy and comfortable. Nice. I have to say they look much more comfortable than my hotel room bed. Maybe I’ll just drop into one of those and sleep all day. “Thanks for the suggestion. This looks like a great place to hang out. But you walked right toward this area. How did you know to come here?”

  Maryann laughs and sets her bag down beside one of the beanbags. “Oh, we went on holiday here last summer as well.”

  I drop my dry bag beside the beanbag directly across from her and Randy. “You must have enjoyed it a lot to come back.”

  “Oh, yes, it was swell. You won’t believe it. The views and the swims are so lovely. “

  “I can believe it. Even here, the view’s amazing.”

  The water in the bay looks smooth as glass and the sky and the mountains and the houses on the far side of the bay in Nidri Town are orange from the rising sun. A few stray clouds linger over the arid peaks. I’m tempted to pull out my camera and take a photo, but then remind myself that this won’t be a vacation I’ll want to remember.

  “It is a lovely morning,” Maryann says in a wistful voice, gazing off into the distance.

  “It’s beautiful.” I untie my wrap and wring it out over the side. Afterward, I tie it onto the railing for the wind to dry. I dig my well-worn beach towel out of my bag and secure it around my waist, sure that the threadbare towel and my dripping wet hat make an amazing fashion statement.

  I don’t mind the wet swimsuit. The damp fabric feels refreshing against my skin since it’s got to be at least eighty-five degrees outside and climbing. I’ll round my estimated temperature up to eighty-six for a quick metric system conversion. Eighty-six Fahrenheit is thirty degrees Celsius. I memorized the Fahrenheit equivalent of twenty, thirty and forty degrees Celsius before I left Tucson, figuring it would be easy enough to estimate temperatures in between. At home I never much think about Celsius versus Fahrenheit, meters versus yards, and gallons versus liters. It’s only on the rare occasions I leave the U.S. that I’m rudely reminded we’re the only ones not using the metric system.

  I slip my sunglasses off, use the corner of my towel to dry off my face before replacing the lenses over my ears. I drop into the beanbag chair and release a long sigh.

  Maryann leans toward me, frowning. “Maya, you look vexed. Your shoulders are going to stick to your ears if you tense those neck muscles any more. You’re on holiday. Just forget about life and enjoy the day.”

  I smile and give her a faint smile. “I know. You’re right about all of it.” She thinks I should enjoy the day. Relax. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. What any normal person would do. I’m on vacation, after all and I spent an exorbitant amount of money to get here. I’m thousands of miles away from the crooked boss who fired me to avoid paying commission he owed me on a six-figure sale. Thousands of miles away from the attorney who, for a hefty fee, is working to collect what I’m owed.

  I let out a long sigh. Why should I allow all that to ruin this lovely day in the Greek isles? The sky is blue and untainted by smog or car pollution. The water on the horizon is a rich, cerulean blue. Even now, I can hear the gentle slap of the water against the boat’s hull. It’s soothing me, urging me to allow my heart rate to slow, my breaths to deepen, to forget. I’m in Greece. Here, I don’t have to worry about paying the rent or if the utilities might get turned off or whether I’ll have enough money to cover gas and groceries. Here, the worst thing that could happen is an embarrassing tumble into the sea. And that’s already happened.

  I gaze out toward the mouth of the bay, imagining what the surrounding islands will look like. Like Lefkada, I imagine that they’ll be made of limestone and covered with olive and fir trees. There will be quaint villages with stone-paved streets and coffee shops and restaurants where you can order spanikopita and fried cheese.

  “Hey, love,” says Maryann. “It looks like eye candy man is joining us on holiday.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I crane my neck to see where her gaze is directed and swear softly under my breath. The familiar tangled mop of dark hair and bulky, flexing shoulder muscles
appear at the top of the boat ladder. The sexy man’s wind-tossed hair obscures most of his face.

  Talk about terrible luck. . So much for my worst thing that could happen pep talk. At least thanks to his hair I can’t see his smug smile.

  He leaps onto the deck like an agile panther. Sweeping his hair aside with a flick of a hand, his gaze lands on me and lingers way too long before his mouth twists into a smile. His gaze makes a slow descent. My annoyance quickly transforms to unease. What’s going on in that warped brain of his?

  I cross my arms protectively over my chest. I don’t want to be ogled, I tell myself while lusty heat pinches at the tips of my nipples and sends blood racing south, stimulating my nether regions so exquisitely I almost moan out loud. Yes, it’s been damn near forever since I’ve had sex. Yes, I’d be more than ready to get it on with Greek statue man if he didn’t strike me as so annoying.

  Where are all these crazy random thoughts coming from? My mind isn’t usually this disordered. Right now it feels more turbulent than the open sea we’re about to venture into. My stomach lurches at the thought. I wonder if maybe I should have taken an extra motion sickness pill just in case the prescribed amount isn’t enough for me. Stop. Get your head together. This too handsome man is wreaking havoc on my equilibrium. I nearly laugh out loud at the stupidity of that ridiculous thought. What equilibrium? I’ve already demonstrated my shit sense of balance to everyone on this boat and soon they’ll know I’m mentally unbalanced as well.

  “I believe we’re all here now,” says Libby. She disappears into the cabin to start taking a head count and ends the counting by touching me on the head. “Thirteen’s the lot. Very good.”

  Thirteen swimmers on the boat and I’ve just been dubbed the unlucky thirteenth. I try to discard thoughts of bad luck colored by images of sinking boats and muscle cramps. Normally, I’m slightly superstitious. But now I’m feeling downright neurotic. I’m completely annoyed with my predicament. I was as stable as any other person until the shit with my job hit the fan and I flew to Greece. Now, I’ve seen one hot guy, been given a random unlucky number and suddenly have the thought processes of a crazy lunatic.

  Forget unlucky thirteen. Now he’s walking toward me. I clear my throat and cough. Damn. My mouth feels dry, but my water bottle is in the bottom of my bag. I won’t allow my mouth to fall open as I watch his large, tanned feet take several athletic steps until he’s standing right in front of me. Okay, so here we are. I’ll utter one or two stupid things right away so I can get the worst of the embarrassment over with right off the bat.

  What I really need right now is a shot of tequila.

  The hot Greek man is still standing in front of me, and my butt is still sunk down deep into the beanbag chair. I fasten my eyes on his sun-bronzed feet. I can’t look up. If I do, my gaze is likely to be aimed at a part of his anatomy I definitely shouldn’t be looking at. I clear my throat, desperately trying to clear my mind of the fact that his cock is only a couple feet away from my face, but trying to shake off that image is like trying to shake off a piece of jumping cholla cactus that has adhered to the arm of your sweatshirt. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit...

  “Good morning, my name is Eros.” His accented voice is deep, robust and sexy. He extends his large, strong hand in my direction.

  Ripples of excitement race over my skin. The sound of his voice and his nearness are just too much. I strain my neck and look up. Way up. Whew. That wasn’t so bad. I’m not looking at it. Yet. I extend my arm reach with my fingertips, but I can’t quite grasp his hand. I’ve sunken so deep into the beanbag that I have to rock back and forth twice to launch myself to my feet. When my gaze meets his, all thoughts fly from my head. This Eros is even more gorgeous at close range. His dark eyes, flecked with gold, are nothing short of disarming. Or disrobing even. I see raw sensuality in the depths of those eyes. I’m wondering if my finger would even indent his flesh if I pressed it into his rock solid upper arm. Probably not. The man’s a wall of muscle. Suddenly, I realize I’m standing there staring at him as if he’s some exotic creature in a zoo.

  The corners of his sumptuous mouth curl up in amusement. “Aren’t you going to shake my hand or introduce yourself?”

  Shit. A nervous laugh escapes my lips. I haven’t even said a word and already I’m making a fool of myself. I grimace, afraid to hear the words that are about to come out of my mouth. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m Maya.” I thrust my hand toward him. When our fingers interlock, I notice his grip is sinewy and strong. I gasp. Looking at him up close was intense, but the jolt of electricity his touch incites is maddening. Sexual desire that had gone latent is now surging through my blood stream. I want this man and bad. I revert to more awkward laughter, hoping he might not have noticed my gasp of astonishment. It couldn’t have been that loud, could it?

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Maya.” He continues shaking my hand, sending shock waves of excitement through my body.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too. But about your name... That was a joke, right? To see if I was paying attention.” I perused some Greek guidebooks in recent weeks and somewhere along the way had read that Eros is the god of sex and love. The Greek cupid. Yes, this man standing in front of me is sexy and yes, anyone would want to be this magnetic man’s lover including me, but no, I’m not buying that his name is actually Eros.

  He drops my hand so suddenly it flops down to my side. My whole body sags in response when the warm and pleasantly erotic current of energy is suddenly cut off.

  The man’s thick dark brows pull together and a muscle in his jaw twitches. “No, Eros is my birth name. Why? You don’t like it?”

  I shake my head and my face heats with embarrassment. I mutter nonsensical gibberish I fear I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

  The sarcastic edge to his words is unmistakable. “Is it too hard for you to pronounce? Perhaps I should make up an American name for you to call me to make it easier on you? Maybe you’d like to call me Ed?”

  Damn. I never expected my awkwardness to catapult me into jerk territory. Now I’m a klutz and an ugly American. How did I manage that? If I’d only buried my face in one of those lumpy pillows and never left my room, things would be a whole lot better. “No, of course not. It’s not th—“

  “What is the problem you are having with my name?” The muscles around his lips are taut, showing he’s on edge. Looking at this man I’ve managed to make an enemy within a blink of an eye, all I can think about is how the yellow flash in his dark eyes and the way his muscles in his neck and upper arms are flexing and angry makes him look hotter than ever. This situation I’ve talked my way into is way worse even than falling overboard.

  I redirect my thoughts away from his sexy, flexing muscles to the mess I’ve gotten myself into and decide an honest explanation is the best approach. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you. But I read these guidebooks about Greece and some of them mentioned names of Greek Gods. Eros was one of them. You have to understand. I meet a Greek and then he tells me he’s Cupid or the god of love.” I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “It just seemed too unbelievable. So I had to ask. To make sure it wasn’t a joke. Sometimes, well, we say things that aren’t true to see if people fall for it.” My intestines twist in agony as I think about what I just said.

  Eros steps in a little closer and speaks in a low, seductive voice. “So a lot of people in your country offer false names when introducing themselves to new people?”

  I cross my arms over my chest more for a sense of protection than anything else. “Not really, b—“

  “So why did you assume it was a lie?”

  I sigh. “I just told you. I didn’t think you were lying. I thought it was a joke.”

  A grin spreads over his face. “I try to avoid joking with strangers. Especially with Americans since they tend to take themselves very seriously.” A breath of wind tosses a lock of his long dark hair over his eyes. I fight the urge to reach out and brush it away from his fac
e.

  For the brief instant that it takes for him to swipe the curly mass of hair from his face, I stare at him. Then I glance away and clear my throat. “You keep saying American this, American that. How do you even know where I’m from? I could be from Tasmania for all you know.”

  He laughs out loud. “I don’t think so. Listen to yourself. What you say makes your nationality quite clear. There are many things about you that suggest you are American.”

  “Many things?” I plant my hands on my hips. I really hoped he’d get past my blunder instead of assigning me the role of prototype Ugly American. “Such as?”

  “In addition to the fact that you are nervous, stressed out, and don’t trust strangers, there is the issue of your accent.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. I’m offended by all these labels he’s assigned me, but for some reason his mention of my accent irks me the most. I want to fire back that his accent is just as weird, but I’ve never been a bad liar. I’d rattle that off and blush since in reality, I think his accent is sexy enough to melt chocolate or even metal. “The issue of my accent? Is it really that bad?”

  “Your voice sounds strained and like you are worrying about what people think. It would be quite melodic if you could relax.”

  Melodic? Now, he’s kidding, right? Or maybe this Eros plays in a band or smokes serious weed.

  My fantasy about foreign guys had always been that they spoke in wordy, poetic phrases. Eros fits this fantasy image in every way. I wonder if he’s flirting or mocking me. Maybe a little of both? “Everyone has stress sometimes, not just Americans. I’m sure many people in your own country are freaked out by the financial crisis. Don’t waste time worrying about me. I know how to relax. Maybe you’ll like my voice better after I drink some wine at lunch later.”

  “Drinking wine is a very bad way to manage stress. There are much better ways that I can think of to do these things.” His gaze wanders over my body and his lips curl up in a seductive smile. “And you must know you can not have alcoholic drinks during the swimming lunch.”