Page 10 of Slightly Married (Irresistible #2)

Y iorgos’s villa perched on the Athenian hillside, all gleaming glass and modern angles. The view of the city below was breathtaking, but I barely had time to appreciate it before being whisked inside to his massive walk-in closet.

Two weeks had passed since our chance meeting at the boutique, and after several phone conversations, I’d accepted his job offer.

If I were to spend the next year of my life in Greece, I might as well make myself useful by doing something I enjoyed. Fashion had always been my playground, where colors and textures became a language I spoke fluently.

“This is what I’m working with?” I said, surveying the clothing with dismay. Designer labels crowded every rack yet somehow managed to form a united front of poor taste. “You’ve been shopping with your eyes closed.”

Yiorgos laughed.

For the next hour, I threw myself into sorting the closet, grateful for work demanding complete concentration. Anything to keep my mind off the disappointment in my womb since seeing that single line on the pregnancy test two nights ago.

I created piles for donation and crafted outfit combinations to flatter his athletic build. My fingers worked quickly, my mind cataloging textures and colors.

My phone buzzed with a text from Simone. A photo of a perfectly set table for two, captioned ‘Still our secret, but I’m happy.’

I smiled, typing back a quick response before returning to the row of silk ties. “Half of these need to be burned immediately. The rest we can organize by season and occasion.”

He held up a paisley shirt I’d condemned. “Elana bought me this.”

“Your wife had questionable tastes in men’s fashion,” I said, then caught myself. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“Honest,” he finished, smiling and leaning against the doorframe. “And accurate. You’re good at this. Kostas always had an eye for quality women.”

I paused. “You know my husband?”

“Knew,” he corrected. “We were childhood friends. Kostas, Theo, my wife Elana, and I were inseparable until...” His voice trailed off.

“Until?” I prompted.

He shook his head. “Ancient history.” The abrupt shift in his demeanor only heightened my curiosity. “I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I have a few events to attend, and I need a buffer.”

“A buffer?”

“I need protection from the vultures circling since Elana died.” He gestured dramatically. “They see a poor widower and suddenly I’m drowning in invitations and low-cut dresses.”

“You’re about as poor as Midas.” I smirked, holding up a shirt against him. “This blue works with your complexion. And no, I’m not dating my boss.”

“Not dating, accompanying.” He clasped his hands in mock prayer. “Please. You’d be saving me from well-intentioned but exhausting setups. I’m not ready.”

“I’m married,” I reminded him, holding up my ring finger.

“No one knows about it yet,” he countered. “Please?”

“Fine,” I relented, already mentally assembling my outfit. “I’ll be your beard. But you’re paying for my dresses.”

“Deal.” His smile returned full force.

I turned back to the closet, but my mind was elsewhere. What had happened between Yiorgos and Konstantin? And why did I suddenly care so much?

As I contemplated this question, we were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us. I turned to find a much older version of Yiorgos standing in the doorway.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eye as he took in the piles of clothing scattered around us.

“Father,” Yiorgos said, straightening. “This is Kayla Athanasiou, my new personal stylist. Kayla, my father, Petros Papadopoulos.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Papadopoulos,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m just helping your son rehabilitate his wardrobe.”

“Athanasiou?” The older man’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Not Michail and Jeanette’s daughter?”

“Yes, actually. Do you know my parents?”

A smile spread across his weathered features. “Know them? My dear, I was there the night they met.” He chuckled, the sound warm and conspiratorial. “Your mother was quite the performer back then.”

I felt heat rush to my face. “I... I’m aware of how they met.” My mother’s past as a dancer—stripper, to be precise—wasn’t something I advertised.

“A beautiful love story,” Petros continued, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. “Your father couldn’t take his eyes off her. None of us could, really.” He laughed heartily.

Yiorgos shot me an apologetic look. “Father, perhaps—”

“So, have you finally decided to settle in the motherland?” Petros interrupted, his eyes bright with curiosity. “After your parents married, your father chose to stay in New York.”

Before I could answer, Yiorgos did. “Kayla is married to Kostas Christakis.”

Petros’s expression shifted immediately, his eyebrows drawing together. “I’m surprised you ended up married to a Christakis, of all people. Quite unexpected, given the history.”

My embarrassment shifted to curiosity. “History? What do you mean?”

Petros glanced at his son, who had suddenly become intensely interested in a tie I’d condemned to the donation pile. “You don’t know?” Petros asked, genuine surprise in his voice.

“Know what?” I pressed, looking between father and son.

As soon as I climbed into the Titan—Olympus Motor’s newest mid-size SUV—outside Yiorgos’s villa later that afternoon, I called my father. When he answered, I skipped pleasantries entirely.

“Daddy, were you engaged to Irida Christakis?”

The silence on the other end lasted so long I checked to make sure we hadn’t been disconnected. I learned about my father’s engagement to Irida from Yiorgos’s father.

According to Petros, my father had been engaged to Irida Christakis years ago—until he left for America on business, where he met and married my mother instead. This revelation suddenly explained Irida’s persistent coldness toward me.

“That’s ancient history, butterfly,” he finally said.

“It doesn’t feel like ancient history when the woman glares daggers at me every time I enter a room.” I felt heat rising in my cheeks. “A heads-up would have been nice before you married me into that family.”

“I haven’t thought about that engagement since I ended it.” He sounded surprised. “It was arranged by our parents. I was young; she was younger. Things... didn’t work out.”

“Didn’t work out how?” I pressed, absently tracing the butter-soft leather of the car seat. “Because from Irida’s behavior, it seems like there’s more to the story.”

“I met your mother,” he said simply. “Fell in love, married her instead.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this when arranging my marriage to her nephew?”

“Michaila,” his voice softened, “I had forgotten about it until this moment. It was thirty years ago.”

I sighed, watching Panos’ eyes flick to the rearview mirror before focusing back on the road. “Well, she certainly hasn’t forgotten. And now I’m stuck in her house with her icy stares and exits whenever I enter a room.”

“I’m sorry, butterfly.”

His apology didn’t make me feel better. Neither did the realization that I was the daughter of the woman who took Irida’s groom.

“I have to go,” I said, noticing we were approaching the Christakis estate’s gates. “We’ll talk later.”

I ended the call just as the car passed through the security checkpoint, immediately pulling up Simone’s contact. If anyone would understand my frustration with Daddy’s convenient memory loss, it would be my sister.

“That’s it, Mrs. Christakis. You did well.” I heard the snap of latex as Dr. Petrova removed her gloves before patting my knee. “Good luck.”

I lay on my back with my feet suspended in metal stirrups, wondering if there was a woman on this planet who didn’t feel utterly exposed in this position. The faint smell of cleaning products lingered in the air, unsuccessfully masked by the lavender room spray.

At my head sat Konstantin, looking criminally attractive in a navy polo that hugged his broad shoulders and tailored slacks.

The casual attire was somehow more devastating than his usual suits.

Seriously, who gave him permission to look gorgeous while I was spread-eagle on an exam table with my dignity nowhere to be found?

This was our second attempt at IUI, and despite the staff’s reassurances and efficiency, I wasn’t exactly loving the experience. The doctor slipped out with a soft click of the door, leaving Konstantin and me alone.

“Thank you for coming, Konstantin,” I said, fixing my gaze on a tiny crack in the ceiling tile. “But you don’t have to stay. I got this.”

He made no move to rise. “Do you think staying in this position helps with conception?”

“According to what I’ve read, yes.” I shifted, wincing at the paper’s loud protest. “And I do hope it works this time. I’d hate to have to go through this a third time.”

What I didn’t say was how crushing the negative results had been. I’d sat on the edge of my bathtub staring at the test, surprised by the tears that threatened.

Or how I’d spent the next day researching everything from fertility foods to meditation techniques, determined that my body wouldn’t fail me again. This marriage might be temporary, but the child we created would be forever, and I was already fiercely protective of that possibility.

“Is it painful?” His voice carried genuine concern.

“Uncomfortable.” I added with a small laugh. “Embarrassing, certainly. Nobody likes being stuck on their back like a dying beetle with their legs pointed toward heaven.”

He chuckled, the deep sound warming the air between us. I focused on doing my Kegels rather than the oddly intimate silence stretching between us.

“Please thank Andreas for the flowers he sent me,” I said, desperate to fill the quiet. “They were lovely, and very comforting.”

“I sent the flowers,” Konstantin replied.

“I’m willing to bet Andreas picked them out.” I smiled despite myself, picturing Konstantin’s efficient assistant selecting an appropriate arrangement while his boss signed the card.

“You’re right.” The smile was evident in his voice, a rare lightness I was beginning to recognize. “The last time we spoke, you mentioned you were working?”

“I am.” Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, imprinting soft, honey-colored patterns on the walls. Outside, Athens buzzed with midday energy.

“Is the financial support I provide not enough?” Konstantin asked, his tone reverting to businessman-mode.

“It has nothing to do with money,” I said, rolling my eyes though he couldn’t see from his position. “I love fashion and was offered the job of a personal stylist. Honestly, it’s not really work. I enjoy transforming how people present themselves to the world.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found something to occupy your time.”

“By the way,” I said, “why didn’t you tell me your aunt was once engaged to my father?”

Konstantin’s chair creaked as he shifted. “I assumed you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. I found out last week. It would have been nice to know why she’s been treating me like I tracked dog poop through her rugs.”

His silence stretched for several seconds. “I apologize. It happened when I was a child, but it’s well-known family history. I thought your father would have mentioned it.”

“Apparently it’s so ‘ancient history’ he claims he forgot all about it,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Meanwhile, I’ve been enduring your aunt’s cold shoulder without understanding why.”

“Irida has never fully healed from that time,” he said quietly. “It was more complicated than a simple broken engagement.”

“How complicated could it be? My father fell in love with my mother instead.”

“If it helps,” Konstantin finally said, “her attitude isn’t about you personally.”

Maybe it wasn’t about me, but I was the one getting cold shoulders. Funny how ancient history could feel so damn present.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I sighed. “But when someone dislikes you because of who your parents are, it feels pretty personal.”

A knock interrupted us, and a nurse’s voice floated through the door announcing we could leave.

“You should go,” I told him, excited at the prospect of finally moving my legs. “I need to get dressed.”

“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

He exited, and the door clicked softly behind him. I exhaled deeply, the room suddenly larger without his presence. Gingerly, I extracted my stiff legs from the stirrups and reached for my clothes folded neatly on the chair beside me.

As I gathered my things, I checked my phone to find three messages from Simone asking for updates. Despite the ocean between us, she was still by my side for every important moment.

I texted back.

Procedure #2 complete. Call you tonight with details.

I tried not to hope. But hope had a way of blooming in silence, even when you told it not to.

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time, something would take root.