Page 12 of Valkyrie Confused

“Careful. You're turning into a Greek grandma,” he calls back from where he's setting the single table.

If Greek grandmas have the same illicit thoughts I do for men half a decade younger than them, I'm writing for the wrong audience.

I lean forward, to cross my arms on the balcony rail. “Do I remind you of your grandma?” I tease. I shouldn't tease. I’m his employer, even if the weirdest contract ever assures that I can’t fire him. But he’s been a flirt near constantly, and his easygoing nature makes me relax around him.

“That leaning is very reminiscing of local grandmas.” He grins up at me, and the early morning sun turns brighter. “As is your fashion sense, though they'd complete that look with an apron.”

I swallow the growl clawing up my throat. I’m at home. About to write. At fifteen degrees Celsius. Does he expect me to do so in a silk teddy? “Sounds like your grandma has great taste,” I say with a tight smile. “But I'm not telling you to get dressed so you don’t catch your death. I just don't want you scandalizing our guests.” If I didn't remind him of his grandma before, my word choice ought to do the trick.

Eh. Not like that'll make a difference. Panos is gay, and he works for me, and though I love the appreciative sounds he makes when I stretch or climb the stairs ahead of him or bend over to do my shoelaces, nothing will ever happen between us.

“The latest raving review had a whole paragraph on howthe charming hotel manager adds to the guesthouse's appeal.” He sweeps one hand down his perfectly chiseled body. “I’m an asset.”

“Yeah, only two letters short,” I say under my breath. But really, if he got that incredible ass just by climbing stairs, I should leave my apartment more often.

Panos chuckles. “I heard that.” He pulls on his shirt.

Sad sigh.

I wave him off and sit at my makeshift desk—aka the small, round, metallic balcony table—to write my morning thousand, as I call the product of my morning writing session, which may range from five-hundred to a few-thousand words.

In the few months before I made the decision to leave the States, that wordcount was much lower and nowhere near as organic. The few pages I managed to write were bad and didn’t make it across the Atlantic.

This month, I’ve written 40,300 words, most of which are salvageable. Wish I’d also written the sex scenes, instead of jotting them down as bullet points. I especially hate that I dreamed of the first time Malia, Pan, and Drolk—not sure I’m keeping his name—slept together but can’t recall the details. I remember the flirting and the sensations, but…

Today is the day, and that's what writer-brain is for—to fill in the gaps.Ha.

Malia is going to get pounded in the orchard in about two paragraphs, and she's going to love it.

“I told you not to be out in the open. He’ll see you.” Drolk’s scowl matched the dark clouds above, and the atmosphere thickened with electricity.

Pan kicked at a rock. “We can’t keep her in a cave forever.”

Malia nodded. She was done hiding. “I needed some fresh air.” She planted her fists on her hips and scowled back. “And what do you care, anyway? I thought you were on his side.”

Drolk stomped his feet closer, until he hovered above her, and she had to crane her neck to meet his stormy gaze. “If you don’t know by now whose side I’m on, maybe this will help clear any lingering confusion.” His hand flew toward her, quick as lightning, but not to strike. He bunched her long, auburn hair in his fist and slanted his lips over hers.

His kiss was hard. Demanding. And Malia ached to give him everything he desired.

But Pan…

“Have you eaten anything?”

I jump, and the chair topples back. Arms and legs in the air, I have a moment to think this is how I’ll die—with my head smashing into the inch-thick window and bursting open like a watermelon—before my descent is stopped and I’m returned to the upright position. By a laughing Panos.

“I’m sorry,” he manages between chortles. “I didn’t expect…” He’s still laughing.

Heart racing, I crane my neck to look at him. “I’ve told you a million times to knock.” And why is he shirtless again? He smells better than the pine trees and the fresh air. Must be theeau de forbidden fruit.

“I’m your caretaker. I take care of you.” He's so close, I go cross-eyed trying to meet his gaze.

What I want to do is lean back and rub my cheek against his chest.

Nope. Not doing that. “You take care of the property and the guests. Not me.”

“Only because you won’t let me.” Did that sound sultry, or is it me?

It’s me. It’s my filthy mind, that’s paying for my extended stay in Greece but also wreaks havoc on my social interactions.

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