He was the wind that made her world freeze over. She was the fire that lit up his.
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Aren Petros was the stain on the Petros family name, known for his criminal past. And Mila Chambers was the solution to cleaning up his image. So when they find th...
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OVER THE NEXT few days, news of Aren's heroics spread across the local area and beyond with media outlets picking up on the story. While I couldn't understand the urge to pull out a phone and start recording in a moment like that, a few people had been filming Aren rescuing the boy.
Few people had approached Aren when we had been out in the city, a difference from when we first arrived in Santorini. The aftermath of his heroics was certainly advantageous. All publicity was good publicity and the kind that Aren acquired was amazing. In some clips posted online, you could see when the boy had regained consciousness and when I hugged Aren in response. The topics ranged from how Aren was perhaps a hidden good samaritan, his ability to save the boy so quickly, the importance of safety at public beaches, and my favourite--note the sarcasm--our relationship.
One article had funnily nicknamed Aren the honeymoon hero because he managed to save a life and look entirely heroic in front of his wife. I supposed people did believe that we were head over heels for each other, especially since our little wet hug moment had also been filmed. All in all, our honeymoon was being discussed in more places than I would have liked but if it meant our plan was working, I couldn't complain.
We had two days left until we could return to London, and I was practically counting down the hours. His presence had become tolerable and that was as far as I could describe it. We were getting the hang of the pretending thing but I knew that was only because it was in front of total strangers. I didn't think it would be as easy once we returned to the UK, especially not in front of my sisters.
"How quickly can you pack your suitcase?" Aren asked as he came back into the hotel room from the beach and looked at his watch.
I looked up from where I was sitting on the bed and then to my open suitcase on the far side of the room. "Probably in like fifteen minutes. Why?"
He slid the French doors shut behind him and pulled his suitcase upright. I learned that he was a naturally neat person. Everything was always folded and he operated under a strict system that meant he was always ready to go no matter the occasion.
"There's been a change of plans."
I interrupted him before he could say anything further and sat up straighter. "Are we cutting the honeymoon short?" I questioned excitedly.
His gaze cut to mine and he studied me for a moment. "Don't sound too excited. And no. I figured we could use a change of scenery and go to Italy for our last two days."
I cocked my head to the side and my eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. "You want to fly out tonight?"
He arched an eyebrow and leaned against his suitcase. "Do you propose we swim there?"
It was almost instinctive when I looked for a pillow. While his presence had become tolerable, his retorts hadn't. The hot sun—a far cry from the weather in London—made it so that I didn't have the energy to reply most of the time. My only option was to throw a pillow.
