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All that was left to get her to admit it. And he had a fair idea of how to do exactly that.
* * *
Having workedthree enormous shifts straight, Phoebe was glad to finally have a day off. Her feet were killing her, and her cheeks hurt from smiling at customers. Not to mention the man from last night. Tasso. Anastasios.
Her heart picked up a notch as she remembered the way he’d watched her all evening, the sensation of butterflies beating inside her belly, of a strange anticipation beating like a drum beneath her skin, as her stomach swirled with unfamiliar and unwanted desire. That had been before she’d known his connection to Kon. Now she did?
She moaned softly as fresh waves of grief assaulted her, and she could barely stand. Leaning her hip against her kitchen counter, she allowed the tears to fall, dropping with fat splashes against her breasts as she gave into the sadness. He was eighty four, but so fit and sharp, hardly a suspect for a heart attack.
“Oh, Kon,” she whispered, shaking her head, moving unsteadily to the gift he’d given her a month or so ago—a small bronze ballerina after she’d told him of her first ever experience of seeing a ballet show. She’d been so excited, recounting the music and movements, the theatrics of it all, and he’d smiled indulgently and nodded, agreeing that live ballet was a true gift. The following week, he’d arrived with this little statue.A memento.
She’d cherished it because he’d given it to her, placing it in middle of the small shelf in the bedsit’s lounge area. She lifted it now, running her fingers over the edges, feeling grateful, more than anything else, that she’d had a chance to know this man, that they’d struck up a conversation on her first shift, when he’d taken pity on her after she’d spilled a bowl of soup across his table. He’d insisted to themaître dethat it had been his fault, saving her from termination, for sure. After that, he’d come in often, always sitting at the same table, always making conversation with her. A few weeks after his first visit, she’d finished her shift at the same time he’d paid his bill. They’d walked out together, and without discussing it, had continued walking, all the way to the edge of Kensington garden, where they’d found a bench seat and continued talking.
It was months before she opened up to him about her life before London, and a month after that before he did the same, but after that, there was no stopping their friendship. They were truly kindred spirits, and his interest in her life was heartwarming for many reasons, and one in particular: besides her brother Dale, Kon had been the first person to ever show any kind of interest in Phoebe, to care what happened to her, to want to listen to her speak and encourage her in her dreams.
Anastasios was right—they were in a relationship, but not like the one he was suggesting. This was a deep, special friendship. Somehow, Konstantinos had become a father figure to Phoebe. She loved him, and she knew she’d miss him forever.
But the idea of sleeping with him?
Despite the fact he was a very handsome older man, it made her skin crawl, simply because their relationship was so deep, so important to her.
No, sexual relationships were something Phoebe had given a wide berth. Not intentionally, but her adolescence had really precluded the opportunity to date, and after she’d run away from home, she’d been more concerned with finding food and safe shelter for the night than she had been a boyfriend. In fact, the examples of ‘relationships’ she witnessed on the streets of Melbourne were so much like her parents’ awful domestic situation that she’d done everything she could to avoid making friendships with anyone.
She’d been a loner for so long.
Kon had changed that.
Another sob wrenched from her gut, and then, there was the knocking at her door.
She suspected it would be Mrs Langham and despite the fact she’d grown fond of the pensioner who rented out this miniscule flat to supplement her grocery expenses, Phoebe really didn’t want to be disturbed.
Nonetheless, she wrenched in the door, an approximation of a smile on her face as she looked out, only to be confronted by a wall of abdominals encased in a black t-shirt. Higher she looked, her eyes landing on his face and that same drum beating was back, rushing now, fast, urgent, desperate, so she held her breath and gripped the door much more tightly.
“Anastasios.” His name was so addictive. When she said it, her knees went weak.
“Phoebe.” His expression hadn’t softened at all.
“I take it you’ve come to apologise?” She couldn’t help goading him. After all, he’d behaved like a right jackass the night before.
“For what? Calling a spade a spade?”
“Or a whore a whore?” She challenged, anger firing through her. That was another thing! She’d slapped him! She who had always, always sworn to never give in to physical violence. She’d witnessed too much of it. Been on the receiving end as well. Yet this man had made her feel—too many things.
“Your words, not mine.”
“What do you want?”
“To finish our conversation. I told you, this isn’t over.”
The sun shifted through a storm cloud, casting his thick, dark hair with light, making it shimmer. Her eyes lifted to it of their own accord and her breath was a cyclone inside her windpipe.
“How did you find out where I live?” She asked over a knotted, swallowing action.
“It wasn’t difficult.” He brushed aside the question. “We need to talk.”
“I can’t see that we do.”
“You don’t think you owe me some kind of explanation?”
