And even when she had become accepted by those new schoolmates, and later work colleagues, despite her exuberant front and her deep, sincere desire to connect with people, she had never truly managed to. After her mum had left, and then all the friends she’d lost time and time again when her dad had uprooted them, she had realised that it was easier to keep people at arm’s length. To be a social butterfly. To keep those friendships on the surface. For their sakes and hers.
That was until she’d met Alain. At first, as the owner and head chef of the restaurant where she’d begun her training to be a pastry chef, he had been her boss. She had fallen in love with his enthusiasm and passion and they had quickly become a couple.
But she had hurt him terribly when she’d left him. Feeling as if she were unable to breathe. Panicked at how serious their relationship had become. Questioning everything about their relationship and convincing herself that she was only with him because he made her feel safe. That she wouldn’t feel so freaked out if she’d met ‘Mr Right’.
A few relationships later it had slowly dawned on her that maybe ‘Mr Right’ didn’t exist for her... Not through any fault of the men she’d met. No, the problem lay squarely at her door—she’d been moving about for so long her need for change was bone-deep, her restlessness, her love for travel and exploring new places—all were too strong within her for any relationship to survive.
Loukas was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt when he returned to the kitchen. In silence he approached her and then, again crouching before her, he began to place a pair of snow-white sports socks on her feet.
‘These will be too big, but they are padded and will be more comfortable when you walk.’ Standing, he asked, ‘Do you want to give it a try?’
She nodded, but before she could react further his hands were on her waist. Gently he eased her forward on the counter, and her hands reflexively reached out to hold his upper arms before he lifted her slowly down onto the marble floor of the kitchen. Her hands refused to drop away from his arms—in fact her fingers insisting on remaining wrapped around the powerful strength of his biceps.
Drop your hands, Georgie. What are you doing?
But his hands aren’t dropping from my waist either, and it’s so nice here, being held, inches away from him, inhaling his scent...citrus, but with a hint of basil and cedar.
He’s your boss—you’re his matchmaker, for crying out loud. Let go!
But instead of letting go she dared to look up into his eyes.
He looked as perplexed as she was feeling.
She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘Hi.’
He jerked his head back, as though suddenly waking up to his surroundings.
In unison they moved apart.
Her heart a churning mess, her legs wobbly, she took a few tentative steps. It stung, but seeing his concerned expression at her measured movements she upped her pace and gave him a bright smile.
‘I think I’ll live.’
‘Good.’ He gestured to the stools by the breakfast counter. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll clean up.’
He refused to allow her to help, so Georgie sat at the counter feeling sheepish. But as he cleared away the baking equipment, wiped the counter surfaces and swept the floor, the silence between them and the darkness outside, the fact that they were all alone in his villa, had an intoxicating feeling of intimacy.
When he’d finished tidying up he turned and considered her.
She smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’
He nodded, and for the longest time they stared at one another, something shifting between them.
He’s your boss, Georgie. Stop it!
She yanked her gaze away and for want of something to do reached across the kitchen island and pulled the cooling rack towards her.
She had managed to place seven croissants on the rack before she’d dropped the baking tray on her foot. She held out a croissant to him, wanting to thank him but also to reach out to him for reasons she didn’t fully understand.
He eyed the croissant dubiously, so she explained. ‘A peace offering—to apologise for waking you.’
He reached for the croissant with a hint of a smile and broke it into two. ‘It’d better be good to make up for having me believe I had a burglar.’
She held her breath as he took a bite. He nodded his head and took another bite.
He raised the remaining small piece of pastry in his hand. ‘You’re safe...this is really good.’
She tried to hide just how pleased she was that he liked her baking and said, ‘I worked for a while as a trainee pastry chef in a restaurant in Lyon.’
He took a bite from the other half. ‘Why did you stop when you’re obviously so talented?’
She shrugged and said, ‘I wanted to move on to something else...to a new city.’
He folded his arms and considered her for a moment. ‘Like dog-walking?’
Annoyed by his judgemental tone, she answered instantly. ‘I was a dog walker when I was eighteen. After Lyon I moved to Lisbon and worked in a theatre there as a stagehand.’ Unable to stop a defensive edge entering her voice, she added, ‘I hate being confined. I like change.’
He popped the last remaining piece of croissant in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed as he considered her words. Eventually he said, ‘Having no responsibilities?’
The croissants she had baked were plump and a dark golden colour. She eyed them for a few seconds before darting her gaze back to him. This time she did not bother with a smile. ‘You sound critical.’
He looked at her in silence for the longest while before saying, ‘We’ve a long day ahead of us. We’d better go and get some sleep.’
She stood, her feet stinging a little. She bit back a grimace. Not wanting them to part with the tension that was between them right now, she said, ‘I really am sorry that I woke you. And thanks for looking after me tonight, for allowing me to stay. You have a wonderful home...the tall ceilings, the décor, the courtyard garden...it’s all so beautiful.’
His expression relaxed and his gaze moved from her to the kitchen and dining area beyond. ‘My father and mother loved this house but they didn’t have time to invest in it. It was comfortable, but pretty ramshackle when I was growing up—nobody had seriously invested in it for over a hundred years. I renovated it a few years back.’
She swallowed and tried to find the right words, knowing just how painful it was to lose a parent. ‘Angeliki told me about your parents dying. I’m sorry...it must have been a difficult time.’
His gaze briefly met hers, and there it was again, that something between them—a connection, a recognition despite the tension between them. Was it the silence of the house, the darkness outside, that was causing them to talk like this?
‘We got through it.’ He looked away and said with the hint of a sigh, ‘My siblings didn’t want the villa renovated. Maybe they were right.’
The tension lines around his eyes were back in force, as though he was burdened by that admission.
Puzzled, she asked, ‘Why do you think that?’
‘I thought that if I renovated the villa Marios and Nikos would realise that life had changed...that we all needed to move on and that they needed to start living differently and assume more responsibility. For Angeliki I wanted to create new memories. But they resented it that I’d changed so much about the family home. There were a lot of arguments over it.’
She went and stood next to him, where he was standing by the dishwasher. He clearly blamed himself for the arguments.
‘It