Page 6 of Horns for the Holidays

I cleared my throat. “Andreas, perhaps we should discuss the partnership agreement. I know you had some concerns about?—”

“Bah!” Andreas waved a hand dismissively. “Business talk can wait. Tomorrow, you must experience Elysia as guests, then we talk! How can you market paradise if you haven’t lived it, eh?”

He gestured widely to encompass the dining hall. Music rose in answer, a lively folk tune floating on the sea breeze. Drinks appeared from nowhere, filling our hands before I could protest.

“Come, come!” Andreas ushered us towards a table. “I’ve saved the best spot in the house for you. Did you know our head chef trained under Gordon Ramsay himself? Although,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “between us, I think even Gordon would weep at the perfection of our moussaka.”

I barely heard him. Every cell in my body was attuned to Laramie’s presence beside me. The sway of her hips as she walked. The soft inhale of her breath. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

We reached the table. A prime spot overlooking both the dining room and the glittering expanse of the Aegean beyond. Under normal circumstances, I’d have appreciated the view. Now, it barely registered.

“Sit, sit!” Andreas pulled out Laramie’s chair with a flourish. I lowered myself into the seat across from her, acutely aware of how my knees nearly brushed hers beneath the table.

A server materialized at Laramie’s elbow, offering us both fresh plates piled high with some kind of seafood pasta. She accepted it with a murmured thanks, carefully avoiding my gaze.

“Now,” Andreas clapped his hands together, “I will have your promise to join me for the Siren’s Luminary Spectacular this evening. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen our sirens perform. They are exquisite! Truly, our pride and joy.”

I nodded absently, my thoughts preoccupied by Laramie Scanlon. How was I supposed to concentrate on anything when my newly discovered mate sat inches away, smelling of pasta sauce and paradise?

“That sounds lovely,” Laramie said, her voice strained. Was it my imagination, or did her eyes keep darting in my direction? “Though I should probably change first.”

“You are perfection already, my dear! But if you insist...” Andreas winked at her. “I will have my assistant send over the details. For now, eat, drink, and be merry! The night is young, and Elysia awaits!”

He swept away with another boisterous laugh, leaving us alone in uncomfortable silence.

“Well.” Laramie eyed her food warily. “This has been an interesting welcome, to say the least.”

I took a long swallow of wine, struggling to collect myself. “I didn’t recognize you before. From the balcony. I apologize for any inconvenience. If I’d known we would be working together, I wouldn’t have?—”

“Threatened to have me thrown out?” She arched an eyebrow. “Consider it forgotten, Mr. Mavridis. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy my dinner in peace. After all,” her lips curved in a sardonic smile, “I need to relax and enjoy myself. Boss’s orders.”

With that, she stabbed at her pasta, pointedly ignoring me.

I sat back. This was not how I’d imagined meeting my mate would go. Then again, given the luck of my life, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

Last minotaur alive. Betrayed again and again by those closest to him. Strong-armed into a semi-public appearance for meetings that could have been emails.

And now this mate bond pulsed between us like a living thing. Demanding attention. Insisting that I claim what was mine.

But she wasn’t. Not really. She was my employee. And I was her boss, for fuck’s sake.

So instead of doing what every fiber of my being demanded—sweep her off to my suite and ravish her senseless—I picked at my pasta and waited for Andreas to claim more of my time.

This was going to be a very long week.

CHAPTER THREE

LARAMIE

The scalding water cascaded over my shoulders, but even the heat couldn’t wash away the mortification of last night. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, replaying every cringe-worthy moment on a loop.

Making an ass of myself in front of my boss. Getting pasta sauce dumped down my front. Having cameras shoved in my face.

At least I’d managed to escape before the siren extravaganza or whatever it was called, citing jet lag. In reality, I just needed to flee before I spontaneously combusted from embarrassment.

I shut off the water with more force than necessary and wrapped myself in a plush towel. The bathroom mirror had steamed over, leaving my reflection a blurry mess. Fitting, really.

What the hell was I going to do? I had to work with the man. Had to convince him I was a competent professional and not some clumsy idiot with anger management issues unable to be trusted around fruit.

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