Page 20 of Double Apex

“No flirting—it’s too risky,” she insists. “We’re supposed to, like, just talk about movies we love, watch Premier League over beers, tell each other our favorite colors. Friendly shit like that.”

She edges away from me, and my body is in mourning. I caress her shoulder, a ghost of a touch. She freezes.

“I told you, draga. My favorite color is white.”

I’m afraid the moment will be lost forever if I don’t give her something by which to remember it. I brush my lips along the curve of her shoulder.

“And some day, when you admit you wore that white shirt for me… I will reward you.”

7

SANTORINI

PHAEDRA

At first, I think our cover is blown—there are so many eyes on Cosmin as we walk the narrow, cobbled lanes of Oia. Can there bethatmany Formula 1 fans in this tiny Greek town? Then I notice: it’s all women. The attention is because of his beauty, of course.

Your brain is above your heart, Schatzi.Klaus’s presence is in my mind like an Austrian Jiminy Cricket, cautioning me to behave. So my brain scolds my heart, which is crouched like a defending tiger wanting to scratch out the eyes of the women leering at the man who had me weak-kneed and wet a few hours ago.

True, I don’t typically go for blondes, but Ardelean is kinda killing me today.

As we explore Oia’s shops and kiosks, I watch him, and I watchwomenwatch him. He’s wearing a white dress shirtturned up to the elbows, untucked over jeans with rolled cuffs and—oh, God help me—gray Converse.

I almost always wear Converse myself, and I’m a sucker for a boy who wears them too. I’d wonder if he bought them recently to impress me, but they’re scuffed and creased. His outfit is effortlessly adorable: from the waist up, like a sexy best man at a wedding after a few drinks; from the waist down, solid indie cred.

He’s examining an outdoor table of small ceramic boxes, their glaze blue as the surrounding sea. His wavy, long-on-top hair is nodding against his forehead in the breeze, and as he combs it back with his fingers, I imagine him rakingmyhair. Grabbing a handful. Pulling just enough…

Well, shit.Thatlittle daydream escalated quickly.

I’m doomed.

My common sense says Cosmin and I are both so intense that things would befucking amazingfor about a week, followed by wanting to murder each other, and the team would implode. Remembering he’s a smug asshole isn’t really helping.

He buys a ceramic box, and at another table deliberates over sets of hair combs.

“I need your help,” he tells me. Gesturing at two, he asks, “Which would look better with this color hair?” He points at his own.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty princess!” I tease.

“So amusing. It’s for my sister, Viorica—she looks like me. But a little gray too.”

I take two combs and hold them near Cosmin’s head.

“This one looks great,” I say.

My fingers are so close to his hair, longing to plunge in and feel it. I hope my heartbeat isn’t visible through my thin shirt.

He buys the set and an old-fashioned hand mirror.

Halfway through the shopping district, we pass a confectionery. A mouthwatering scent wafts out, and a rosy-cheeked matron stands next to the doorway with a tray of samples.

She doesn’t speak English, but Cosmin tries French, which she knows. He says something, opening a hand toward me, and the woman raises her eyebrows and nods, smiling.

“Hey, no fair!” I laugh. “What’s the big secret?”

“No secret,” he says, almost shy. He picks up a sample—a piece of something that looks like fudge with bits of cookie—and holds it near my mouth. “I referred to you as my beautiful friend.”

Klaus was right, all the times he’s said there’s something magical about Santorini. Because in the space of twenty-four hours, Cosminissort of my friend.

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