Page 3 of Bluebell Promises

Wren nodded and blushed. Maybe if she looked within herself extra hard, she sensed guilt that she hadn’t stayed behind to help with the inn.

“I am an only child,” the Greek man said, shaking his head. He turned around and grabbed a key off the wall, an ancient-looking one that had real weight to it. “Here is your key. Room 307.”

Wren tilted her head. “I haven’t told you my name yet.”

“I just upgraded you from your tiny room with the parking lot view. It’s not good,” the Greek man said. “We are not fully booked tonight. You can imagine that is another reason my parents aren’t happy.” He smiled wider. “But my computer tells me you’re probably Wren Harper. Am I right?”

Wren’s cheeks felt hot. She took the key and pocketed it. “That’s right. I’m Wren Harper.”

“The only woman traveling alone to Santorini,” he said. “What are you looking for here?”

“I’m a photographer for a travel magazine,” Wren stated.

“Oh! So you are not looking for love in Greece,” the Greek man said.

“Never,” Wren said. “As far as I can tell, it only brings trouble.”

The Greek man extended his hand and shook hers. “I don’t believe truer words have ever been spoken.”

Upstairs, Wren turned the key in the lock of her room, which turned out to be the honeymoon suite. It was bigger than any hotel room she’d ever stayed in. A king-sized bed sat on glowing hardwood floors, and french windows opened out onto the most gorgeous view she’d ever seen. It was twilight now, and the ocean looked the same dark blue color as the sky. Chilly, she changed into a black dress with tights and a leather jacket, then made her way back downstairs, hoping to catch the Greek guy and ask his name before she grabbed dinner. But his mother was back behind the desk, mumbling to herself, probably about her husband. Wren made up her mind to forget about him and went outside.

Everywhere she looked, tourists strolled beneath the moonlight, calling out to one another and ducking into restaurants and bars. Wren’s stomach flipped over with hunger. Eventually, she stepped into a less expensive and more traditional taverna, where a broad-shouldered and pot-bellied Greek man in his fifties or sixties smiled at her and said, “Take a seat! I bring you a menu!” Wren liked him immediately.

Wren chose a table near the railing overlooking the view. From there, she could see other restaurants and bars that lined the edge of the town. They looked far more ornate than this one, often featuring tiny plates with tiny pieces of food that probably did not cost tiny prices. Wren ordered a feast of moussaka and red wine for herself. As she sipped her wine, she pulled out her journal and wrote a few lines about the joy she experienced now.

This morning, I woke up in Thailand, hot and sticky and nervous. Now, I’m at a beautiful taverna on Santorini, drinking red wine and waiting for a marvelous Greek meal. I have no idea where my life is headed. I have no idea what to hope for, minus more of this!

And then, from behind her, the restaurant owner called out, “Angelos!” He burst into a gorgeous monologue in Greek, one that told her how pleased he was to see whoever Angelos was. Wren told herself she couldn’t turn around. But when Angelos answered, heat spread through her chest and down into her belly. It was him. The Greek guy from the hotel. Angelos.

She couldn’t help herself. She twisted in her chair and caught Angelos’s eye, fluttering her fingers.

“Wren Harper!” Angelos’s smile was brighter than the moon.

The restaurant owner repeated her name, as though it were a joke. “Wren Harper!”

Wren laughed, throwing her head back.

“What is it they say? Of all the gin joints in all the world,” Angelos boomed, coming over to her.

“You’re a Casablanca fan?” Wren asked.

“I dabbled in film theory at university.” Angelos shrugged. “Before my parents demanded that I come home from Athens and… well, you already know! I work at the inn, and I suppose I will forever work at the inn. But this is the best restaurant in all of Oia! Did you hear that, Andreas?”

Andreas, the restaurant owner, raised his glass of beer. “The very best!”

“How did you know to come here?” Angelos asked Wren.

“I liked the vibe.” Wren shrugged.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Angelos rubbed the back of his neck. “I promise I am not a stalker. I had a long day at the inn, and I always come here for a snack and a drink.”

Wren’s heart thudded. She’d never been one to believe in “fate,” but she had to wonder if a part of her had wanted Angelos to follow her. Had she walked into this restaurant because it seemed more “traditional” and less “touristy” and therefore one that might draw Angelos?

“Please do.” Wren gestured to the chair across from her. She felt herself grin wider. Was she flirting with him? She hadn’t had a travel fling in ages—maybe because she was still reeling from the Graves’ disease diagnosis and her father’s death or because she ached with guilt about leaving her sisters behind.

But she couldn’t resist Angelos. She decided, right then and there, that if he kissed her, she’d welcome it.

When his wine arrived, he raised his glass. “To fate.”