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“Right, people, back to work!” their father commanded his troops with the confident authority of a seasoned general.
Everybody instantly obeyed and the small, efficient army of servers and kitchen staff began to ebb and flow around the surly Robbie, who was hunkered on the floor with a tray, gathering up broken bits of sticky dessert. Iris hopped to her previous assignment, loading up on the dolmades and spanakopita to refill the empty chafing dishes out in the grand ballroom where the buffet dinner service was in full swing.
Iris was happy this wasn’t a sit-down meal service because she could flit in and out of the reception area with little chance of being noticed and recognized by the guests. Her thick hair was tightly gathered in a neat bun at the top of her head and she wore the company uniform of crisp long-sleeved white shirt, black waistcoat, black trousers, black bow tie, and polished black brogues on her feet.
After she deposited the food, she headed back to the kitchen, neatly dodging a pair of children playing tag on the dance floor, and careening straight into a solid male form in the process. His hands came up to steady her, loosely encircling her upper arms.
“Oof,” she gasped, rubbing her nose, which had hit the bony ridge of the man’s clavicle. “So sorry, I wasn’t loo?—”
She looked up and the words died on her lips, as she registered exactly who it was she was staring at. But it was impossible. There was no way he could be here. How could he be here?
“Trystan?” she whispered as the world simply froze around her, ceasing to exist entirely while she tried to make sense of this impossibility.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Why are you here? Do you know the Tavoularises?”
“What?” he asked, looking completely bemused as he stared at her as if he were seeing her for the very first time, and sounding perplexed by her question.
Well, as long as she wasn’t the only bewildered party here.
His hands tightened briefly on her biceps, reminding her that he still held her in his grip and she wondered if she should protest that. She was so confused by his presence that she had no idea how to react to it.
“The—uh—bride and groom,” she clarified, and his face cleared. He sent a preoccupied look around the room before shaking his head. He shifted slightly and angled his body so that his back was to the room, which meant—hopefully—that nobody would immediately recognize him. It was a miracle that his presence hadn’t yet attracted any attention, but the guests were currently too engrossed in their food. Also, Trystan was wearing a white dress shirt and black jeans, and—despite his height—could have been mistaken for one of the staff. And, let’s be real, a Greek wedding in Wandsworth was most assuredly the last place anybody would expect to find Trystan Abbott.
“I have no idea who they are.”
“Then why are you here?” she asked again, irritation starting to outweigh the confusion and warring with the absolute joy she felt at seeing him again.
“To see you,” he said, as if this was the most obvious fact, dropping his hands with seeming reluctance and Iris hated that she missed his touch as soon as it was gone.
“I’m working. You shouldn’t have come here,” she said in a low voice. “This is highly inappropriate. I won’t have you hijacking this couple’s day, and ruining my parents’ professional reputation in the process,”
“I didn’t know you’d be working,” he said, casting his eyes around the room again. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”
“No. We’re short-staffed. I can’t simply up and leave because you’ve suddenly decided to do whatever this is.”
“If you’re short-staffed I could help,” he suggested. “Then maybe we could talk afterward?”
She laughed incredulously at that suggestion.
“Help?” she repeated. “Do you even know who you are?”
“I have a disguise, and I can stay out of sight in the back if need be.”
“A disguise?” she asked, but he was staring at her again, his eyes running over her face almost ravenously, then up to her hair, down over her body, his eyes flaring in appreciation at the sight of her figure-hugging uniform.
When he didn’t reply, she prompted him, “Trystan? What disguise?”
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with suspicious brightness beneath the lights. He lifted his hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek with a reverence that left her breathless. She leaned into the caress, before coming to her senses and jerking her head back.
“You want to help?” she asked, her voice curt as she tried to keep her emotions in check. He stared at her, eyes burning, face taut.
“Yes.”
“Follow me,” she said and turned to push through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. He was so close to her she could feel the wash of heat from his body against her back.
“Surely you’re not here alone,” she said over her shoulder. “That would be irresponsible.”
