Page 41 of Not My Greek Wedding

‘Your boat?’

‘Well, it belongs to my father really, but I like to think of it as the family yacht. And I guess it will be mine one day,’ he says.

Did he just say yacht?

I take glances at him as we drive, sunglasses perched on his head, dark hair blowing ever so slightly in the wind, loving every minute of his life. Greek music is booming out from a car radio. I am pretty sure this guy would disagree with the bloke from the shop, who seems to think that money cannot buy happiness.

A family yacht though! I don’t really know what I was expecting, but certainly not the sleek, long vessel that awaits us at the harbour. A waiter welcomes our arrival on board with a glass of chilled champagne.

‘Please.’ Christos gestures to the inside, panelled with walnut and decked out with cream leather seats.

‘This is amazing,’ I say, glancing around as I clutch my champagne. I almost feel as though I am in a scene of a James Bond movie.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ He moves closer to me. ‘I love it. But then, I like all beautiful things,’ he says, holding my gaze.

His cheesy line should have me rolling my eyes, yet something stirs in me.

‘Come, let me show you to the sunbathing deck.’ He takes me by the hand and my heart gives a little flutter.

He leads me to the top deck, where two sunbeds are waiting, along with the rest of the champagne bottle in an ice bucket and a bowl of strawberries.

‘So how are you enjoying being here in Santorini?’ he asks as the boat begins to move away from the marina and out into the open water.

‘It’s wonderful.’ I sigh. ‘Everything is just so picture perfect.’

‘I’m glad you are enjoying it. Holidays should be about relaxing and having fun.’ He smiles. ‘Did you bring your bikini?’ he asks. ‘I thought we might anchor in a little while and enjoy a swim.’

‘I have,’ I tell him as I peel off my short dress to reveal my white bikini, a flattering, lacy number I bought in a sale back home. I notice Christos’s eyes flick over my body as I place my dress down beside me.

He attempts to refill my glass, but I place my hand over it.

‘Maybe later, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go swimming after a couple of glasses of champagne.’

‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘Whatever you think.’

We chat as the yacht sails, and he tells me all about his work at the club. I tell him a little about my social media, although he never really asked, but rather is keen to tell me about his own life.

‘I spend a lot of time at the club,’ he informs me as he sips his drink. ‘And not just in the evening, I am involved in the staff recruitment, hiring DJs from around the world, arranging drinks promotions. Some might say I am a bit of a workaholic, but I love it.’

‘Do any of your siblings work at the club?’ I ask. I thought Spyros the barman bore a slight resemblance to him, but he tells me no.

‘They have no interest in it,’ he tells me. ‘Besides, I don’t think my siblings could do the job as well as I do.’

Modest then.

We sail across the striking blue waters, Christos spending some time on his phone I notice, only telling me about the surroundings when I ask him a particular question. When I enquire what the island is like in the winter, he pulls a face.

‘Quiet. Too quiet, for me at least,’ he reveals. ‘Many people like it that way, especially the old people who say they have reclaimed their home.’

‘Surely tourism is good for the economy though?’ I ask.

‘Undoubtedly. But the islanders don’t think they really benefit. Unless they are business owners, of course.’ He sips some water from a bottle of Evian.

Business owners like his own family, who must surely benefit?

‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to live here when the crowds leave,’ I say as I lean on a rail and feel the wind blowing through my hair. The striking shades of emerald and navy give way seamlessly to swathes of blue that match the sky above as we move through the water.

‘As I say, it suits those islanders who are glad to see the back of the tourists.’ He shrugs. ‘But I often take off for Ibiza when the season ends here,’ he reveals.

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