Peach Bellini

1

Ugh. I'm slimy and gross. I've just gotten off my eight hour plane and I'm quite literally crawling to Fiona's shower. Of course she's only got Bath and Body works products. So I'm not properly clean and I smell like Japanese cherry blossoms. Next thing I know, I'm passed out on her sofa at 3pm.
~
As my eyes reluctantly peeled open with an almost audible crack of my dried eye fluids I startled. Black wings on dark eyes stare at me. "Goodmorning Sunshine!! You've slept," she checks her (nonexistent) watch, "14 hours!"

"So then why are you waking me up at..." it takes me at least five minutes to do the math, "3 am?" I ask her. She's awful.
"Witching hour." Fiona responds with too much sincerity and a familiar wiggle of her eyebrows. "And I'm bored."
Every summer, for as long as I can remember, I've left my prison to visit my aunt Fiona in Greece. I don't really know why she lives here, I just know I enjoy it. I'm a snob like that. I don't really speak the language.... but it's fine. I can get the gist. Anyways, I sleep in late, when she lets me (eye roll), and try my best to block out my life outside of the Mediterranean. It should be especially easy as I've just graduated. I'm off to uni! And that's all the cheeriness I can afford in one day.
"Ohhhhh Basilton..." She snaps at me.
"What?" This woman.
"I know you're stupid but stop zoning out."
"Asshat!!" I tell her.
She sticks her tongue out at me and leaves. I guess she wasn't that bored after all.
~
Finally, I wake up during a morning time. Fiona really doesn't care about my sleep schedule. Though she does tell me to go to the bakery for breakfast.
"Why can't you do it?" I ask her.
"Cuz I don't want to. Turd."
I just leave knowing I can't win. Well actually, I always win, just not against Fiona.

So I strut down the street in my linen pants and Oxford shirt, though it's entirely too warm, until I smell it. Feta cheese and butter. I may be cold blooded in spirit, but I refuse to let a single fiber of sugar miss my mouth. Not sure why.

I open the door with a responsive "Hello." (No one speaks Greek here.) (Of course Fiona would pick the most touristy place.)

At this point, I've got a routine. Every one working at the shop knows my order and Fiona's, even when we feel like changing it up. Which is why I slightly startle when someone says, "Hi, how can I help you?"

Gucci glasses almost falling out of my hand as I push them into my hair, I respond, "Chocolatine and a large camomile?"
Oh my god. He's hot. Blue eyes, brownish hair, and oh my god (again) so many freckles. Like London skyline freckles. Like connect the dots and make Starry Night freckles. Like I wish I could kiss each one individually but I don't think I'd live long enough.
"Are you sure? You sound a little unsure." He laughs. Is he... Scottish?!

I stare at him for a second. What is happening.

"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks mate." My rugby player comes out when I'm nervous.

"Alright I'll bring it out to you in a sec." I turn to leave. I can't tell if I'm happy that the conversation is over, or sad because oh my god he was hot.