Page 35 of Love on the Rocks
“I have another bedroom. The kids’ room.” He took out two small cups and put the little copper pot on the stove.
“Kids’ room, huh?” I snarked. At least he had space for his many offspring.
“Yeah, my nephews.” He gestured at a photo on the bookshelf.
“Right, your ‘nephews,’” I mumbled as he walked past me to the patio door.
“Do you need me to carry you again?”
“I can take care of myself, thanks.” I propelled myself outside and sat on the chair he pulled out for me. Why was he suddenly being so nice? And so communicative? Was it because he’d seen me naked?
I turned my attention to his ridiculously gorgeous view of the sea. I breathed in the fresh salt air and turned my face to the sun, listening to birds singing from the leafy branches of the fig tree that hung over the patio.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out on your boat pretending to fish?”
“Pretendingto fish? I’ve been fishing since before I could walk.” He set the coffee down on the table. “You’ve eaten what I’ve caught, you know.”
“No.” I shook my head and as he poured me a cup. “Inevercook your fish.”
“Hmm.” He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, and a few wayward curls fell onto his forehead. “Well, I thought I’d hang around this morning to make sure you woke up. I was worried you’d hit your head yesterday and hadn’t told me.”
“I’m not that foolish.” I took a sip of the coffee, thick and black like they liked it here. It was growing on me. Like most things on this island.
“Are you hungry?”
“I could eat something,” I admitted as my stomach growled.
While he went inside, I peeked at the book that was lying open on his chair, its pages rustling in the breeze. It was the same book I’d snooped through yesterday, still open to that image of an old broken drinking vessel.
“You can borrow a copy if you’d like,” Nikos’s voice came from behind me. I jumped in surprise and tried to feign disinterest. “You’re going to be homebound for the foreseeable future. You’ll need something to entertain you.”
“What is it?”
“The History of Lyra. My grandfather wrote it. I’m translating it, so I have several copies.”
He set our plates down on the mosaic table. I was sure breakfast for him meant a couple slices of toast, so I was surprised that he had brought out scrambled eggs with tomatoes, feta, and mint and served it with thick hunks of Maria’s homemade bread.
I took a bite, wanting to hate it. “Oh, come on . . .”
His eyebrows drew together as he passed me a napkin. “What? Is it that bad?”
”No, it’s delicious. God, is there anything you can’t do?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Let me guess, the eggs are from your hens, the tomatoes and mint from your garden. You milked the sheep to make the feta, and you made the bowls in your pottery studio. Am I right?”
“About the tomatoes, yes. The hens are my neighbors’. The feta from the market and these old plates from IKEA. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Well, I suppose you do have to find the time to actually treat a patient or two.” I shoveled another forkful in my mouth. I was suddenly ravenous and making no effort to hide it.
He slid a small bowl of olives toward me. “These are from the olive grove your resort will be built on. If it gets approved.”
“You meanwhenit gets approved. I know about your ‘artifact,’ and word is it’s a fake.”
“We should know soon enough. The archaeologist didn’t think so.”
“It’s a fake. I’m counting on it.” I took one of the small purplish olives and brought it to my mouth. His eyes followed my fingers and lingered on my lips while I took the firm flesh and worried it against my teeth. It was like a tiny, luscious salt bomb and reminded me of the sea. It was an almost primal experience to eat products from the source, as if the whole place was distilled into it. The French have a word for that—terroir—or the essence of a place. Before moving here, I thought I understood it, but I hadn’t really until I put this tiny miracle in my mouth.
At our restaurants, we sourced local produce, but we were still at least two degrees removed from the food we prepared. Here I’d had the source of the stinky goat cheese dancing on my tin roof.
“You like it?” Nikos’s deep voice woke me from my reverie. I realized I had closed my eyes, and maybe had moaned?
