as far away as I could, and looked up through eyes full of tears to see Nikos standing there with a stunned expression on his face—and then running for the golf cart.
I watched, coughing and trying to work more saliva into my mouth, praying that he had some magic anti-olive potion in that basket.
When he came back, though, it was with a bottle of wine. He popped the cork, using the corkscrew he’d also magically come up with, and held the bottle out to me.
“Drink,” he told me. “It might not take the taste away, but it’ll pull the bitterness out.”
When I hesitated, trying desperately to figure out whether wine would make things better or worse, he reached down, took my hand, and shoved the bottle into it.
“Drink,” he said urgently.
I did. And it didn’t take the taste away. But it did eliminate the bitterness.
I handed the bottle back, still gasping, caught between a laugh and tears at what I’d just experienced. Then I leaned down, scooped up a handful of fallen olives—from last season, I assumed—and hurled them at Nikos.
He ducked, and came up looking aghast. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“You let me eat that!” I answered. “And as far as I’m concerned, that means war.”
I scooped up another handful of old olives, grinned, and hurled them his way—and what followed was the biggest, most chaotic olive fight I’d ever been involved in.
Not that I had olive fights often. But, well, you know.
Chapter 16
Trish
Three days later, after a blur of touring the island via both quad and horses—Nikos was, by the way, appropriately impressed with how well I could ride—I was beginning to feel even more like this place was my second home, and it had just taken a literal shipwreck for me to find it.
I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that I was going to have to leave it soon. But I also hadn’t really been looking at that concept too much. The fact was, every time it slipped into my mind, I found a way to slip it back out again.
And there was always something to take my mind off of it.
I’d been through the vineyards and groves until I felt I could find my way through them on my own, and had even learned how to tell whether olives and grapes were ready for picking—and how to pick them without damaging them. I’d eaten very early grapes in the vineyard, laughing with Nikos as the juices ran down our chins, and had successfully avoided eating any more unripe olives.
I had seen the curing rooms, where the green olives became edible, and I’d walked past barrel after barrel of bright green orbs floating in brine. The entire place smelled like pickles, and I’d said so—much to Nikos’ consternation.
“They are nothing like pickles,” he’d said, clearly affronted at the very thought that I might compare the two.
Personally, I thought there were many ways they could be compared to pickles. Both, for example, were green. Both were soaked in brine before they became a marketable version of themselves.
Both came in jars.
But I didn’t think any of those things would be adequate for winning this particular argument, so I’d just shrugged and asked him to show me what the next room held.
That, it turned out, was where they made flavored olives, combining the brine with a bunch of other stuff—herbs and spices and garlic and onions and even cheese. And there, I’d actually been able to taste some of the others.
Nothing was completely ready yet, of course.
“They have to soak for a year before they’re ready,” he said, using something that looked like a dipper to fish one out for me. “But it’ll be better than what you had in the grove.”
It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. And when I’d said so, Nikos’ smile had been like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. It had lit up the entire room—and I’d left that room feeling like I was floating on the warmth I’d seen in his eyes.
We’d been snorkeling again and had spent an entire afternoon lazing by the pool reading together. Not talking. Not eating. Just… sitting next to each other and reading.
It had been heavenly.
And with each passing day, I was becoming more and more certain that there was something intensely important—and deep—brewing between us. Several situations where I was positive he was going to kiss me just added to that, and I had to admit, if only to myself,