The Best Man's Guarded Heart

The composting bag full, Grace tied it and placed it in a corner. He, meanwhile, had taken over the scooping of the leaves.

She moved next to him, her bare legs inches from where he crouched down. If he reached out, his fingers could follow a lazy path over her creamy skin. He could learn at what point her eyes would glaze over as his fingers traced her sensitive spots. The desire to pull her down onto the mound of leaves and kiss that beautiful mouth raged inside him.

‘There’s no need for you to help.’

She sounded weary.

He stood. His gut tightened when he saw the exhaustion in her eyes. ‘You need a break. Have some lunch. I’ll finish here.’

She hesitated, but then walked over to the tray. The deep aroma of Greek coffee filled the workshop but she immediately went back to work, carrying a fresh box over to the table. In between opening the box and sorting through the flowers she hurriedly gulped down some coffee and took quick, small bites of a triangular-shaped parcel of spinach and feta cheese pie—spanakopita.

He gathered up the tray, ignoring her confused expression, and took it to a bench outside. When Grace joined him he said, ‘You shouldn’t work and eat at the same time.’

‘I’m too busy.’

‘Let’s make a deal. If you agree to take a ten-minute break, I’ll stay a while and unpack some of the supplies for you.’

She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Are you sure?’

He needed to make clear his reasons for doing this. ‘You’re my guest—it’s my duty to take care of you.’

She paused for a moment and considered his words before giving a faint nod. ‘I’d appreciate your help, but I must warn you that it might prove to be a tedious job because the suppliers haven’t labelled the boxes. I need you to find the glass vases for me first, as I have to prep them today. There’s a box-cutter you can use on the table next to the boxes.’

He went back inside and started opening boxes. She rejoined him within five minutes. A five-minute break that had included her answering a phone call from someone called Lizzie.

A begrudging respect for her work ethic toyed with his annoyance that she hadn’t adhered to her side of the bargain. He wasn’t used to people going against his orders.

They both worked in silence, but the air was charged with an uncomfortable tension.

Eventually she spoke. ‘What were these workshops originally used for?’

Sadness tugged in his chest at her question. He swallowed hard before he spoke. ‘My uncle was a ceramicist and he built these workshops for his work.’

She rested her hands on the workbench and leaned forward. ‘I noticed some ceramic pieces in your house—are they your uncle’s?’

‘Yes. He created them in these workshops; there’s a kiln in the end room.’

‘They’re beautiful.’

Thrown by the admiration and excitement in her voice, he pressed his thumb against the sharp blade of the box cutter. ‘He died two years ago.’

For a long while the only sound was the whistle of the light sea breeze as it swirled into the workshop.

She walked around the bench to where he was working. ‘I’m sorry.’

He glanced away from the tender sincerity in her eyes. It tugged much too painfully at the empty pit in his stomach.

‘What was he like?’

The centre of my world.

He went back to work, barely registering the rows of candles inside the box he had just opened.

‘He was quiet, thoughtful. He loved this island. When I was a small boy the island belonged to my grandparents. They used it as their summer retreat. My uncle lived here permanently. Christos and I used to spend our summers here, free to explore without anyone telling us what to do and when to be home. That freedom was paradise. We’d swim and climb all day, and at night we’d grill fish on the beach with our uncle. He would tell us stories late into the night, trying his best to scare us with tales of sea monsters.’

‘There’s a gorgeous ceramic pot in the living room, with images of sea monsters and children...did he create that?’

He was taken aback that she had already noticed his single most treasured possession, and it was a while before he answered. ‘Yes, the children are Christos and me.’

‘What wonderful memories you both must have.’

He turned away from the beguiling softness in her violet eyes. He closed the lid of the box, still having been unable to locate the vases. It was strange to talk to someone about his uncle. Usually he closed off any conversation about him, but being here, in one of his workshops, with this quietly spoken empathetic woman, had him wanting to speak about him.

‘He always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when they were unconventional or high risk. He even funded my first ever property acquisition when I was nineteen. Thankfully I was able to pay him back with interest within a year. He believed in me, trusted me when others didn’t.’

Her thumb rubbed against the corner of a box. He noticed that her nails, cut short, were varnish-free. A plaster was wrapped around her index finger and he had to stop himself from taking it in his hand.

She inhaled before she spoke. ‘You were lucky to have someone like that in your life.’

Taken aback by the loneliness in her voice, he could only agree. ‘Yes.’

She gave him a sad smile. ‘Kasas is a very special place...you’re lucky to have a house somewhere so magical.’

Old memories came back with a vengeance. ‘Some people would hate it.’

‘Hate this island? I think it’s the most beautiful place I have ever visited.’

Andreas watched her, disarmed by the passion in her voice. He wanted to believe everything she said was heartfelt and genuine. That he wasn’t being manipulated by a woman again. But cold logic told him not to buy any of it.

It was time to move this conversation on. It was getting way too personal.

‘The vases aren’t here.’

Her mouth dropped open and she visibly paled. ‘They have to be.’

‘I’ve double-checked each box—they’re not.’

She gave a low groan and rushed over to the boxes, while frantically pushing buttons on her phone. As she ransacked the boxes she spoke to someone called Jan.

Andreas walked away and into the adjoining room. Once again he tried to ignore the loneliness crowding his chest at being in these workshops for the first time since his uncle had died.

A few minutes later Grace followed him into the end room, where the kiln was located. She stopped at the doorway and clenched her phone tight in her palm. Her paleness had now been replaced by a slash of red on her cheeks.

She spoke in a low voice, her eyes wary. ‘The vases were never despatched by the suppliers in Amsterdam; they won’t get here before Saturday.’

He had guessed as much. He gestured to the vast array of white porcelain pots on the bench beside the kiln. ‘You can use these instead.’

Her eyes grew wide and she went and picked one up. And then another. Her fingers traced over the smooth delicate ceramic. ‘Are you sure?’