Page 151 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

“Don’t bother. They brought fresh clothes for you.”

She wasn’t about to meet a dozen strangers in a bathrobe.

She went to shower and emerged to find bags of Davenwear on her bed: yoga pants and velour joggers and smart hiking trousers. There were sports bras with more cross straps than a spider’s web, fitted T-shirts and snuggle-soft pullovers.

She tried on the black yoga pants with the flared pant leg. The V-neck T-shirt plunged to make the most of her cleavage and the pink chenille jacket was like pulling on a hug. She instantly felt relaxed yet able to run a marathon.

When she came upstairs, she found a half dozen strangers busily working off laptops and scribbling on pads, preparing snacks and wiping down tables. They all treated her the way she treated guests at the hotel, pausing to acknowledge her with cheerful eagerness to please.

Atlas was in a meeting in the den, she was told. She accepted a coffee and retreated to her room to browse for an apartment for her father. He had gone to the hotel under duress, mostly because Elijah had told him Grettina would use the room if he didn’t.

After an hour or so, heavy footsteps approached her open door. Atlas appeared. He had shaved and wore jeans with a collared shirt beneath a dark blue pullover. His expression was still remote enough to make her stomach sink. Why did he seem so angry with her? She had told him she would have sex with him. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

“We have a lunch date. We need to leave in fifteen minutes,” he informed her.

“Where are we going?” She looked down at her clothes and touched the plain braid she was wearing down the front of her shoulder.

“Rafael and Alexandra Zamos have invited us to their chalet. You don’t need to change. I want to keep it casual. I’ve been trying to connect with him for years and he’s finally giving me an opening, but this is a social visit. Were you given ski pants? We’re taking the snowmobile. They might be in the ski room.” He vanished from the doorway like smoke.

She quickly looked up the couple they were meeting. They were very rich, which was no surprise since they were contemporaries of Atlas. Rafael seemed self-made after getting his start in shipping. His wife was an American heiress who had attended boarding school in Europe.

“Do you think they’re expecting you to bring Iris?” she asked when she met Atlas in the ski room.

“When I canceled the heli-skiing, I told Rafael that Iris had gone back to London. His wife stays on top of gossip and instructed him to ask me if it would be four for lunch so I’m confident they know who I’m bringing. If you’re uncomfortable at any time, tell me. We’ll leave.”

And quash a relationship he’d been chasing for years?

“I’m surprised you haven’t run into them in Athens. They live there,” she said as she pulled on periwinkle-blue ski pants over her yoga pants, then adjusted the suspenders.

“After my mother died, I sold the taverna and didn’t go back to Greece for years. I only bought my home in Athens recently with a plan to be there more often. I haven’t had much chance to use it yet. I travel a lot.”

“I’m so sorry. When did you lose her?”

“About a year before I met you. Breast cancer.” He zipped his jacket.

“Is that when you went to live with your father?” The timing didn’t seem right.

“No.” He handed her a helmet so she could fit the straps.

He didn’t offer any context on his childhood, firmly keeping walls in place between them.

“Do you want your own machine?” he asked.

“Not unless you want me to have my own. I can get from A to B if the terrain isn’t too challenging, but I’m not very good.”

“Ride with me, then.” They finished bundling up.

Outside, he let her settle onto the seat first. It was fitted with a passenger seat behind his that was positioned a little higher and had a small backrest.

When she nodded, he straddled the seat in front of her. They checked that the headsets were connected and he started the engine, then told her, “Hold on.”

She snugged herself into his lower back and leaned forward to fold her gloves on the front of his chest.

He took it slowly across the unbroken snow, but the blanket was so powdery, it kicked up around them like bubbles of champagne, making her grin.

A moment later, he arrived on the packed track and opened the throttle.

It was a sunny day, turning up the contrast of white snow against blue sky. Their speed rippled her clothes and she had an excuse to hang on a little tighter. It felt glorious, even if there were thick, insulated layers between them.

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