Georgios never returned to the Manolas family home after the fateful night of my beating, his hypothermia, and Noni’s death. He’s lived with me at my house ever since and will continue to do so for as long as I have breath in my body. A Bergmann and a Manolas living together, loving together, building our lives together. I doubt very much Noni would have approved, but you can’t please everyone. I can’t change what’s gone before, but I can do my damnedest to make sure at least one member of the Manolas family is eternally worshipped and loved by a Bergmann. And at the very least, I can try to be a friend to all the other Manolas’s too.

  My stubborn Georgios took some persuading, but we’ve recently made our peace with the rest of the Manolas family, even with Dion and Nico. I once promised Noni and Simone I wouldn’t take Georgios away from them, not even just to my haven high in the hills above Aegina town, and I’ve upheld that promise. He’s still a part of their family, as am I. Aegina is too small an island to be constantly dodging people you’ve fallen out with; I’ve managed to do the right thing for once by this family. And Papa Marcos has taken to speaking directly to me, instead of using Georgios as an intermediary, so that’s progress.

  Simone helped a lot with building the bridges, as did my own mother when she came over to the island for Noni’s funeral. My stepfather Henry came with her, thank goodness, and all of his substantial negotiating skills were put to the test. Like all good funerals, there were a lot of tears, some shouting, several bottles of Metaxa, and way too much tzatziki and its associated heartburn. The day after included a special trip by me to Piraeus to procure an extra-large bag of conciliatory weed for Dion and Nico. I retched over a toilet bowl in the gents all the way back—I’m still not sure they fully appreciated the sacrifice made to restore familial harmony. And I’m pleased to say their burger bar is ticking over, enough to keep the two of them in beer money and out of mischief.

  *

  It's the last weekend of August, and in two days’ time, I’ll be doing battle with the dreaded ferry crossing once more and heading to the UK for a month. I have sets lined up in London, Manchester, Liverpool, and Glasgow. Charlie has discovered another DJ in Prague he wants to sign to our label. Resisting Charlie’s nagging, I’ve managed to stay in Aegina since the beginning of July, so I can’t complain really. Actually, I’m not complaining one little bit because Georgios is coming with me on the trip for the first time ever, and I’m excited as hell. It took a bit of coaxing—he’s worked in the restaurant every day since it opened; it’s his precious baby. But Simone insisted he take a break and that she’d watch over his sous chef like a hawk. I have every confidence in her ability to keep the restaurant running smoothly in his absence.

  My first task on arriving in the UK will be to treat Georgios to a substantial winter coat, and maybe a woollen scarf, as he’s never ventured farther than the warmer climes of southern Europe. He’s going to find London in September a little on the chilly side, let alone Manchester with its howling north-westerly winds. I shall do my very best to keep him warm.

  Our trip will start with a stay at Guy’s luxurious London hotel. Guy and Georgios are still enjoying a healthy bromance—it seems there is nothing my lover can do that doesn’t meet with Guy’s approval and vice versa. Guy has been so seduced by the simplicity of life on Aegina that Kostas is currently in the process of purchasing a gorgeous holiday villa on his behalf, nestled in the hills high above Perdika. Charlie will no doubt be a regular visitor. I confess I still haven’t plucked up the courage to fully explain their private little peccadilloes to Georgios. With a bit of luck, he was hopefully so cold and upset up on Mount Oros that the vision of Charlie in bondage gear has completely slipped his mind.

  I’ve spent much of the summer eagerly planning this trip to the UK. It will involve a lot of eating in fine restaurants as Georgios is always keen to explore fresh culinary ideas and try them out on me before producing them for a wider audience. I’m determined to introduce him to the delights of a greasy spoon, and one evening will be spent on the sofa of our hotel suite ordering beans on toast from room service and watching a film.

  We’re also going to get married, but Georgios doesn’t know about that part yet. I have nothing fancy planned; we’re just going to choose a pair of rings, and then we’ll head on down to a registry office and do the deed. And after that, we’ll do the other deed, the one that I can’t get enough of, even though I can have it almost as often as I like and with a lot less palaver than the first time!

  That thought makes me smile as my late-night set in the basement of Hotel Artemis starts to wind down. The club is gratifyingly full; a huge crowd of young Americans have descended on us for a few days from one of the swanky yachts moored in the port. The sort of crowd that used to sail straight past Aegina on their way to Mykonos or Santorini with barely a curious glance in our direction. Tonight, the youthful hedonism of this noisy bunch has been absorbed and somehow magnified by all the other clubbers, and the vibe has been unreal.

  It’s a couple of hours after midnight, and I’m coming to a close. Glancing up, I see Georgios watching me from his regular spot in the wings, arms folded and leaning against a pillar. He’s smiling shyly, his dark curls flopping over his forehead as he looks up at me adorably through his lashes before blowing me a kiss. He’s not here every night—sometimes he comes after the restaurant closes, and other times, if he’s too tired, he waits for me in the apartment next door after slipping into something more comfortable—such as our warm, soft bed.

  But tonight, he’s here, and I get my usual jolt of pleasure and respond to him in semaphore, arms flailing, the heart shapes unmistakeable to anyone watching. Feeling naughty and high on life, with a couple of flicks of my wrist, I switch the tune to a brand-new mix. It’s one I’ve meant to get around to for a while, but life kept on getting in the way, and I’ve only just finished it.

  The clubbers silently demand a steady bass, and I deliver the thrumming background at a tempo I’ve perfected throughout the years for the frenetic end-of-set, sweaty, synchronous sea of movement laid out in front of me. And the deep thump also provides an energising backdrop to the unique sounds I’ve lovingly recorded during the last year and laid down over it. Pulsating higher beats, distorted and stretched, could almost be mistaken for the breathy sighs of a male lover in freefall, looped over his deeper, more desperate, urgent moans, looped over his sweet ecstatic gasps as the tempo reaches a climax, looped over…

  Georgios has one hand clutching at his hair. Under his tan, his face is pink with shock, wonder, and, yes, total embarrassment that I’ve created a montage of my favourite sounds in the whole wide world, then set them to music and presented them to an audience who will dance to them, download them, maybe even make love to them. And the world has no idea that those wonderful, unique sounds belong to me and my Georgios in our most intimate moments.

  The clubbers carry on clubbing, the bass carries on thumping, and the world carries on spinning on its axis. But none of this matters because as I give the final countdown—five, four, three, two, one—the lights fade to nothing, and in three paces, my Georgios throws himself at me, climbs up my body, and pulls my mouth down to meet his. And there is nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.

  Glossary of Foreign Terms

  (In alphabetical order)

  AFTERADIKA — Greek idiom for late-night clubs (derived from ‘after,’ as in ‘after hours’)

  BAKLAVA — a rich, sweet dessert originating in the Middle East made of filo pastry filled with chopped nuts, soaked in honey.

  BRANLEUR — French for ‘wanker’

  CAÏQUE — a traditional Greek fishing boat

  DOLMADAKIA — vine leaf wraps usually stuffed with rice and fresh herbs such as mint and parsley

  EKKLISIA ISODIA THEOTOKOU — Greek Orthodox church standing at the harbour in Aegina Town

  FETA — a white salty Greek cheese made from the milk of ewes or goats, often added to a green salad

  GYROS — slices of spiced meat cooked on a rotisserie, served with salad and tzatziki, wrapped in pita bread

  KATSOULA — a sole-like fish local to the waters of Aegina

  KEFALOTYRI — a hard, salty white Greek cheese made from sheep or goat’s milk

  LAMPSI — the longest running series in Greek television, aired nearly every day for fourteen years

  LAVRAKI — a popular sea bass of the Mediterranean, a signature main dish in seaside Greek tavernas

  LEPTA — a former Greek monetary unit worth one hundredth of a drachma, a small coin of ancient Greece

  LOKMA — pastries made of leavened, deep-fried dough, soaked in syrup or honey, sometimes coated with cinnamon

  LOUKOUMADES — bite-sized, fluffy, sweet honey balls, deep-fried (the Greek version of donuts)

  METAXA — a very popular Greek amber spirit created by Spyros Metaxa in 1888, similar to French brandy

  MOUSSAKA — a Greek dish of luscious layers of juicy beef mince (or lamb) cooked in a tomato-based sauce, layered with aubergine (eggplant) and creamy béchamel sauce and baked together

  PITA — flat, hollow, slightly leavened bread which can be split open to hold a filling

  SAGANAKI — in Greek cuisine, any one of a variety of dishes prepared in a small frying pan, usually a fried cheese appetizer

  SCHOKOLADE — chocolate

  SOUVLAKI — the Greek version of the Middle Eastern kebab, made of meat or fish, marinated in lemon juice

  TARAMASALATA — a pinkish paste or dip made from certain fish roe, mixed with olive oil and seasoning

  TSANTALI — a popular Greek wine

  TZATZIKI — a Greek side dish of yogurt and cucumber, garlic, and often mint

  Acknowledgements

  Most sincere thanks goes to the beautiful people of Aegina for allowing me to borrow their island’s heritage and build a contemporary love story around it. I’m especially grateful to Sophia for introducing me to the delights of traditional Greek cuisine and for having the opportunity to share it on so many memorable occasions in the Aegina evening sunshine with your gorgeous family.

  I’d also like to thank GB for giving me the time to be creative, Seb for giving me the inspiration, and Huggy and JP for improving my social media and drum and bass knowledge without too many eye rolls. And Ricky for being Ricky.

  Finally, I’d like to thank my publisher, NineStar Press, and above all, my editor, Elizabetta, for walking this MM romance first timer through every step of the publishing process with endless patience and encouragement.

  About Fearne Hill

  Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.

  When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anaesthesiologist.

  Email

  fearne.hill@fearnehill.com

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  www.facebook.com/fearne.hill.50

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  @FearneHill

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  www.fearnehill.com

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  Coming Soon from Fearne Hill

  Rossingley

  Rossingley, Book One

  I don’t do nightclubs anymore. It’s not an age thing. Sure, I’m thirty-four, but there are plenty of men and women older than me in here seemingly having a blast. It’s…it’s just that I hoped I’d never need to, I suppose. I think I had this ridiculous notion I’d be happily settled with a great job, an even better loving partner, and a comfortable home. I have the job, and I certainly have the home, not that I particularly wanted it. But the loving partner? Not so much. To be fair, though, I’m quite difficult to love.

  So here I am, propping up the wall in Spangles, a club I haven’t visited in years, watching my pissed former work colleagues, Sam and Louis, make complete arses of themselves on the dancefloor.

  There’s a whole gang of us here. I don’t know any of the others, and I don’t really want to become better acquainted with them either, but Sam has been begging me to come up to London for months and months. He’s been a decent friend since the accident, as much as I’ve let him, and joining him for his boyfriend Louis’s thirtieth birthday is the least I can do to show my appreciation. So I’d downed a few colourful cocktails, which seem to have had no effect on my mood whatsoever, put on my glad rags, done my eyes, and now pretended to be the sexy guy I used to be before my former existence was comprehensively annihilated. And tomorrow, when it’s thankfully all over, I’ll whizz back down the M4 to Allenmouth, and having seen how absolutely spiffily I’m coping, they’ll hopefully leave me alone for a while. I deserve an Oscar for tonight’s performance, but I’m starting to flag. Another ten minutes of hugging the wall and my Campari and soda, and I’ll be on my way.

  An enormously tall, Italian stallion kind of guy gives me a blatant once over, and my eyes skirt past him. Thanks, but no thanks. Curly black hair, eyes like pools of melted chocolate, bulging shoulder muscles, and a broad chest threatening to break out of his tight white T-shirt. As if at any minute, the T-shirt might rip open and his skin turn an ugly shade of green. As he is, with T-shirt intact, he’s what Americans refer to as a jock. Or an especially buff Danny Zuko. But I’m no simpering Pink Lady. He’s absolutely not my bag at all.

  My gaze settles on a little cutie chatting to his friends near the bar. Much more like it, exactly my type of guy. Perfect tight arse in the skinniest of black jeans, and he’s demonstrating the grace of a ballet dancer as he reaches upwards onto his toes to speak into a friend’s ear. Slight of build, and floppy, dirty blond hair with pink frosted tips. Sensing my interest, he shyly smiles at me, and I look away. We all know the rules to this game, and a few seconds later, I glance back at him. He returns the look at precisely the moment that a protective, possessive arm comes to rest across his narrow shoulders, and the ruggedly handsome owner of that arm plants an adoring kiss on his cheek. With a regretful shrug, the cute guy turns to his companion and is pulled into a loving hug. A keeper for sure, only not my keeper unfortunately. Oh well, c’est la vie.

  Gloria Gaynor is belting out that she is what she is at the top of her lungs. Most definitely my cue to leave. I finish my drink and head to where I last saw Sam and Louis. With a bit of luck, they’ll be so engrossed in each other they’ll let me slip out unnoticed to find a taxi to take me home. As I begin to push through groups of sweaty clubbers, the Italian stallion guy blocks my path. And I mean blocks—he’s broad and beefy. He’s giving me an anxious once over through thick black lashes, and his liquid-brown eyes are strangely as skittish as a colt’s. I make to squeeze by. But his big hand reaches around, catching me unawares, settles firmly around my wrist, and I’m tugged towards a dark corner of the club. Granted, it’s an unconventional hook-up technique, but I’m pissed enough and curious enough to go with it—perhaps in the dim light he’s mistaken me for my cousin Freddie; it wouldn’t be the first time. We both have rather striking features.

  So it seems that now he’s got me here, he’s not quite sure what it is he wants. He hovers in front of me, one hand resting lightly at my hip, and I can’t tell if he’s very nervous or very drunk. I’m happy to wait; I’ve got nothing better to do. Anyway, I’m mildly intrigued as I have a feeling that, like me, he doesn’t really belong. He licks his lips once—yes, definitely nervous—and it draws attention to his fine mouth, a full cupids bow, now glistening wetly. The sort of generous wide mouth made for laughing. Or cock sucking. I’m focusing on those lips now because the background thump of Ms Gaynor makes audible speech nigh on impossible.

  “Can I suck your cock?” he asks.

  Gosh, we must be acquainted after all, as this is one of my all-time favourite questions.

  Okay, so I’ve not had any sexual activity in any of its manifestations for approaching two years—yes, really—and I can’t actually recall the last time I even bothered employing my own right hand. Months and months ago. My dildo has probably put itself up for auction on eBay. So if there is a single man in the history of the universe in my current sexual desert who would answer his question in the negative, then I’d like to meet him and shake his hand.

  I contemplate replying with a sarcastic, “Yes, if you can find it, darling” because frankly, it’s most likely shrivelled up and died somewhere. But instead, I nod coolly and find myself mouthing, Be my guest, accompanied by a faintly ridiculous sweeping gesture of my arm as if inviting him in for afternoon tea. And that mouth is quite enticing, even if it is attached to a man built like Tarzan. Beautiful skin, too, a rich natural olive.

  I don’t know the extent of his lipreading skills, but I think he gets the message. Still looks nervous as hell though. I’d go so far as to say bloody terrified. I’ve no idea why, as he’s the one leading on this, and it’s not like my cock is going to bite back. If he’s afraid we’ll be spotted and turfed out, then he need not be. This corner of Spangles might as well have a sign above it advertising ‘sloppy blow jobs here,’ judging by the stickiness of the carpet and the blatant activities of the couples nearby. However, whatever internal battle he’s fighting, his desire to suck on me bizarrely wins out, and he sinks to his knees rather gracefully for such a big bloke.