With Love, Greece.

Chapter 7

"How big are we talking?" I ask.

"You ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding?" I smile big, and I mean big. But Mela doesn't smile back, her expression remains stoic, "think ten times bigger."

My eyebrows raise and the smile doesn't budge, probably something to do with the Greek liqueur pulsing in my veins. "Wow," I state.

She frowns and shakes her finger at me, "it was stress." Her face relaxes, "but perfect in the end."

"I love that," I sigh. "Your family is so lovely," I smile, emotion clogging my throat again.

"So are you going to do it? Act like you don't know he's your ex and plan their wedding?" one of the women asks.

I let my head flop back and sigh out loud, "yes."

"Really?" Mela frowns.

"I have spent so much of my time and money getting to where I am today. Here, on this island, and I can't just throw it away, I can't let him win again," I shake my head.

"How do you know he's not just trying to make you jealous?" she asks.

"Or trying to jeopardize your business."

"I don't," I shrug. "But this is pretty extreme circumstances to be going to make me jealous, right?" I ask.

The ladies shrug. "I don't know, it's a strange coincidence but what can I do?"

"Well, you're always welcome here Alana, no matter what happens we'll have your back, right ladies?"

"Absolutely," they all nod. "You are such a lovely soul," one of the women replies, reaching over and squeezing my hand in hers.

"You hardly know me!" I laugh, "you're making me think you only like me because I'm a walking soap opera," I frown, looking between the females of the family. They all try and look horrified by the accusation, but when Maria places her glass down and looks at me over the rim of her book, which looks like it's a Greek version of Fifty Shades of Grey, she doesn't sugar coat shit. "That's what I said earlier, your drama is proving to be very interesting."

When she goes back to reading her book, I look between the ladies, and we all burst into laughter. I don't care what they think, I'll take their warmness whether it's fake or not. Something deep down tells me is real, and I decide to trust that feeling.

"Hey, can I ask a question," I murmur, hushing my voice and leaning into the group. The women follow, clearly wondering if they're going to get their hands on their next bit of juicy steak and look at me with expecting eyes. "What's with the lady in the corner?" I point to the old, older than any old I've already found, frail woman sitting in the corner with a cup of coffee in her lap.

The women glance over, their bodies relaxing in disappointment at my unloaded question and glance back to me. "That's Nikolas' mother. She's ninety-two," Mela replies.

"Wow, ninety-two! That's incredible. So, there's like," I look around, counting, "five generations of Andreas'"

The women smile and nod, raising their glasses and toasting in Greek, then repeating in English about living a long and healthy life. I'll toast to that; I follow along and down the rest of my cocktail before setting the glass down. It's followed by a round of mutters from the women.

"Jesus."

"She needed that."

"Demetri! Another round!"

I let the lazy smile sit on my lips for the rest of the night, and when the sun sets, the drinks continue to flow and the music gets louder I no longer care about the fact I'm ultimately clubbing in a taverna wearing running gear and let my hair down, literally.