Page 1 of Valkyrie Confused

ONE

SCARLETT

“Almost there,”the driver says in his heavily Greek-accented English. He must have read my mind. Or he extrapolated from the last fifty times I asked how far we still had to go. “Hotel top of hill,” he adds. No need for verbs or prepositions.

I nod eagerly, and thanks to jet lag, it feels like my brain is rattling inside my skull. Only so many times I can tell him how excited I am to be here, though. Not sure how much he understands, anyway. Our discussion has mostly consisted of exclamations, nods, and a lot of pointing. It’s a relief, to be honest. The old lady who sat next to me on the flight to Athens could have been an interrogator, with how interested she was in my life story, so I appreciate not having to answer another ton of questions during the two-hour drive to Kato Trikala Korinthias. I should have taken a nap, but I’m too buzzed to keep my eyes shut.

The driver pulls on the handbrake like his life depends on it, and the clunker of a taxi screeches to a halt as he points to the right. “Here. I get bags.” He jumps out of the car, and pops the trunk open on the second try. Lifts my luggage out and looks at me expectantly.

“I paid in advance?” It comes out a question, but I know I did. “With my card? On the company website?” The same website that promised drivers who were fluent in English and latest-model vehicles, and didn’t deliver?

“No tip?” He scowls. “Drive for hours, no tip?”

My cheeks burn. Didn’t I include a tip? I remember adding it, but my mind is half-asleep, half-dazed by this huge life-altering decision I’ve made. “Of course. Here.” I fish my wallet out of my bag and pull out thirty euros.

The man’s eyes widen, and he snatches the money with a speed I didn’t see coming. “Thank you.” He… bows? And back-steps toward the car. “Thank you. Very nice lady.” Another bow, and he practically runs to the driver’s side and dives behind the steering wheel. “Bye,” he calls out, already speeding away, raising a cloud of dust behind him.

I cough and fan the air with my palm. Guess twenty percent is more than the average tip around here.

I’ll have to research tipping in Greece. Another thing to add to my To Do list.

I take a deep breath. Release it slowly. The whole reason I’m here is to let go of To Do lists. Slow down, learn to live life, and enjoy my craft again. And to do all that, I must be more present.

I perch on one of my suitcases, facing my latest acquisition. The small, rustic hotel—aguesthousethey call it here—is even more beautiful up close. Stone built and with forest-green accents to match its surroundings, it’s two stories tall, four wings wide, and in excellent condition. Makes sense the place is practically booked until summer. The only reason the previous owners put it up for sale was that their daughter in Athens had her first baby, and they wanted to move closer and help her out. They were in such a hurry to go to her, they wouldn’t even be here to meet me.

Feel your feelings, my shrink’s been telling me for the past three years, so I spread my arms and draw in another long breath, soaking in the beauty of the scenery and the freshness of the gentle breeze and the quiet broken only by a barking dog in the distance.

This is paradise. And it’s all mine. This is where I’ll write my next bestseller.

As soon as I have the keys in hand.

My heart jumps in my chest, riding on the doubt I’ve been trying not to feel. What if it’s all a scam? What if there is no daughter the previous owners had to move closer to? What if the actual owners never put the place up for sale, and I was catfished—is it catfishing when there’s no romantic angle?—and there’s no handyman around, to hand me the keys?

No. That part was too weird to be faked. Why would the scammers add that clause to the contract, saying I wasn't allowed to fire the handyman-slash-manager? Besides, Nyx vetted the deal for me.

Leaving my bags where they are—because really, there’s nobody around—I go to the dark-green door withRECEPTIONcarved on it and knock gently. “Hello? Is someone here?”

My author brain is reaching for the threads of a story. The handyman will be a weathered old man, last of the family who resided where the guesthouse now stands, and bound to the land of his ancestors.

And if he’s old, he probably can’t hear me knocking. I pound on the door with my fist, raising my voice. “Hello? This is Scarlett. Scarlett Rivers? The new owner?” Does he even speak English? I should have checked sooner, damn it. “Kalinihta.” It’s the only Greek word that comes to mind.

Shit.It meansgoodnight, doesn’t it?

“What?” The gruff male voice doesn’t come from behind the door, but from above.

I backstep until the upstairs balcony is in sight. Sunlight hits my eyes, so I only see a blurry, glowing outline of the shirtless guy looking down at me over the wooden railing, and he doesn’t seem old. Or weathered.

He sidesteps into the path of the sun, blocking the light, and…Wowza.

He’s the kind of man I write books about. The kind my readers dream of. Okay, the kind I dream of, too. It may be my viewpoint, but he looks tall. His jeans are slung low on his hips, allowing for a glimpse of those delicious hip flexors, but they’re not the only muscles to stand out on his sculpted body. He’s Adonis. No, Apollo.

He tilts his head, and the rays wrap around one side of his face, making his auburn curls look like they’re on fire. The visual goes with his scowl. If I were writing him, he’d be the king of Hell.

And my imagination runs rampant, because, as the breeze ruffles his curls, I see a small horn. Well, IthinkI see a horn, because author brain is working full time.

He mutters something.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

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