Page 109 of Modern Romance December 2025 1-4

Scrounging up a semblance of determination, she sat back in her seat. ‘Later,’ she whispered.

His mouth unfurled in a slow smile that heated her to the core and spoke of pleasures to come. ‘Absolutely.’

Then he turned and switched on the engine.

Rosamund couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much. The whole village had gathered under the plane trees in the square after the wedding ceremony.

The whitewashed church had been small and there’d been standing room only. Dark icons in polished metal frames decorated the walls. The scent of incense filled the space. So did the gravity of the couple’s vows, even though Rosamund didn’t understand a word, and the sheer joy of the occasion.

She still felt unsettled by the unexpectedly intense emotions she’d experienced, witnessing the wedding. It felt more real somehow, more meaningful, than any she’d attended.

Now, she was surrounded by people of all ages gathered around tables that had been brought out of houses and placed together so the community could celebrate as one. Snowy cloths covered the tables, some of them beautifully embroidered in what looked like traditional designs. Platters of food were emptying but the delicious scent of grilled food wafted from where a group of men manned a huge charcoal barbecue.

‘More wine?’ Fotis held the unlabelled bottle above her small glass tumbler.

No elegant stemware here, no silver service. Yet it was the most wonderful meal she’d ever eaten. Delicious and authentic in a way all those gourmet meals at exclusive events could never match. Perhaps because the people here were warm and genuine and she’d never felt so at home.

‘Ne, epharisto.’

Irini, sitting across the table from her, grinned. ‘Bravo!’ She turned to the woman next to her, one of the bride’s cousins. ‘Our visitor speaks Greek.’

Immediately several people down the table clamoured for more information and the old lady switched to Greek, speaking emphatically and at far more length than Rosamund’s couple of words warranted.

‘I only saidyes, thanks,’ Rosamund whispered to Fotis as he poured her wine.

‘Ah.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes that she’d begun to see occasionally. She adored it. ‘But your pronunciation was perfect and everyone has noticed how much you’re improving. Now several people are claiming credit for your language skills.’

Rosamund leaned in, revelling in his closeness. ‘Every time I come to the village someone teaches me a new phrase.’

He put the bottle down. ‘You’ve impressed them. It’s a compliment that you’ve begun using Greek phrases. Not every visitor bothers to learn any, and given most of the people here understand English it’s not absolutely necessary.’

Before she could respond a hand reached for her. It was the bride, wearing a beaming smile. Around the square women were rising from their seats, joining hands to form a line as the musicians struck up a new tune.

Rosamund had done her share of dancing, from waltzing under chandeliers at royal balls to following the beat in the loud, thrumming heat at nightclubs. She’d never danced in the dappled shade of a cobblestoned square. Or with Fotis’ eyes on her.

The dance was beautiful and deeply moving. Perhaps because of the group’s bonhomie and their encouragement as she stumbled through the steps until eventually she learned the rhythm, as if she really were one of them. Or maybe it was because of the way the bride glowed with happiness. Or the expression on the face of her new husband, Fotis’ friend and colleague, Tassos. He watched his bride as if he could never get his fill of her.

That only made Rosamund keenly aware of Fotis’ gaze on her. She didn’t meet his stare butfeltit in every pore. Felt the thrum of awareness, the knowing, the anticipation, and something deeper too.

Then it was time for the men to dance. Tassos, shaking his head and pointing to his prosthetic leg, swooped his wife into his arms and onto his lap as he sat down at the table. Rosamund watched with interest as he said something to Fotis who, after what looked like initial refusal, stood, stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He’d already discarded his tie.

The music was different this time, slow but with an energy that built and built. Again the dancers formed a line with first one then another taking the lead and adding embellishments to the regular steps. There were stately older men, surprisingly light on their feet, and young would-be acrobats who garnered whoops of approval.

Then Fotis took the lead, his expression grave and his steps measured, until suddenly he sprang high, his hand connecting with his outstretched leg, before dropping low in a manoeuvre that required incredible athleticism. His movements were precisely controlled, with sudden bursts of energy as he spun, rose and dropped only to rise again with an ease that astonished her.

Together the rhythm of the music, the steady clapping, and the raw emotion harnessed in his movements, stole her breath. She was on the edge of her seat, wondering at the pounding of her heart. Then someone else took the lead and Fotis moved back to give them space.

His gaze locked on hers, bright and searching, and the music faded, obliterated by the roar of white noise in her ears.

It felt like they were alone, despite the crowd, the claps and cheers. Fotis looked at her and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her heart to rise against her ribs, its beat quickening at her instant, all-consuming awareness.

Awareness and acceptance. Acceptance at the joy she felt. At the knowledge this man and no other had forged such an intimate connection with her. That this was the man, would always be the man, she wanted by her side.

Her breath hitched as her brain caught up with her heart. It should be impossible, given her history with the opposite sex. Given the difficulty she had building trust in anyone.

Yet instead it was perfectly easy.

She was in love, utterly, wholeheartedly in love with Fotis Mavridis.