Page 18 of Slightly Married (Irresistible #2)

He kissed my forehead and readily admitted that cooking wasn’t in his top ten life skills, which was the understatement of the century.

The man had somehow dropped two eggs (on separate occasions), upended an entire bowl of cherry tomatoes across the counter, and burned our first batch of eggs so thoroughly we’d had to start over.

But miraculously, our second attempt turned out decent. The chef had left sourdough bread, and we grilled it on the stovetop after K vetoed my suggestion to use the toaster like normal people.

Despite our culinary misadventures, what we ended up with actually looked like food worthy of social media—if you cropped out the disaster zone surrounding it.

I gave him a playful smack on the ass as he carefully arranged our creation on plates. “Not bad, Chef Boyardee,” I complimented. “But maybe for dinner we should explore this quaint concept called restaurants? I hear they employ people who actually know what they’re doing.”

“Fine,” he replied as he loaded dishes into the dishwasher. “Though we made a good team.”

His words stayed with me as we settled into an unexpected tempo over the following days. Small moments began chipping away at my defenses.

On the third morning, I found him waiting with coffee prepared exactly how I liked it—one sugar and a splash of cream. Such a simple gesture, yet Josh had never learned this detail in our entire three-year relationship.

That evening, Konstantin reached for my hand during our sunset walk along the beach, his fingers intertwining with mine as if we’d been doing this for years. I stiffened briefly before relaxing into his touch, surprised by how natural it felt.

A thunderstorm trapped us indoors on the eighth day. Konstantin introduced me to his favorite films while I critiqued the costumes. We cooked simple dishes together under the watchful eye of his personal chef, and played Mario Kart, which he always won until I discovered his weakness.

“Cheating,” he accused when I removed my bikini top just as his car approached the finish line.

“I’m hot,” I corrected, grinning as his character spun off the track while his eyes remained fixed on my bare chest instead of the screen.

Later that night, after we’d made love, he pulled me against his chest. “Tell me something no one else knows,” he murmured into the darkness.

I hesitated before confessing, “I sometimes worry I’ll never be Greek enough for my father and Black enough for my relatives in the States. Considering how light-skinned I am, I worry that having a baby with you would mean the erasure of my mom completely.”

His arms tightened around me. “You’re more than enough, Kayla.

Exactly as you are. Your heritage lives in your heart, your mind, and your spirit.

Not just your skin. Your mother is in your smile, your strength, the way you see the world.

Our child will carry her legacy too, through your stories and your love. Nothing could ever erase her from you.”

His words settled into me like a balm I hadn’t known I needed. He was right.

My mother wasn’t just in my features or my skin tone, but in everything I was. She lived in my memories, my mannerisms, even in how I always added extra cinnamon to everything.

Our child would know her through me, through the stories and traditions I’d pass down. Maybe that was a different kind of immortality, one that couldn’t be measured in melanin but in meaning. I nestled closer to him, grateful for his understanding of a fear I’d never spoken aloud.

I made the decision then to stop overthinking every interaction and wondering when the magic would end. I would allow myself simply to be present with him.

By the tenth day, Konstantin, ever dignified, attempted to master paddle boarding, but kept toppling into the water. I couldn’t help but laugh each time he fell, his shocked expression as he resurfaced making me double over with uncontrollable giggles.

“You’re terrible at this,” I called out as he wobbled on the board.

“I excel at many things,” he shot back, finally steadying himself. “Just not absurd American sports designed to humiliate men.”

I grinned, unable to resist. “Don’t worry, Mr. Christakis. I promise not to tell anyone you squealed louder than I did when your foot touched that seaweed.”

He proved better at sailing, guiding us confidently along the coastline. Later, as we watched the sunset from the deck, he grew quiet.

“Theo and I used to sail often,” he finally said, running his hand along the boat’s rail. “This is the first time I’ve been on a boat since the shooting.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” The significance of the moment wasn’t lost on me. He was letting me into parts of himself he kept guarded.

Each personal story shared, each private moment of vulnerability, added another complicated layer to what was supposed to be a straightforward marriage. What would happen to these fragile connections we were forming when reality called us back to Athens and the original terms of our agreement?