The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚thirty-nine ‎♡‧₊˚

"What are we doing here?" Areston frowns as he lowers his glasses to scan the surroundings after helping me climb off the speedboat.

"You'll see. Come with me," I am giddy with unbound joy as I slide my palm in his hand and nudge him to follow me.

We stand in front of the charming little  white-washed traditional Greek house nestled right at the edge of the Ionian sea with the sweeping views of the water as its front yard.

It's in the village on the neighboring island he owns and is modestly set against the craggy rocks with a backdrop of majestic mountains dotted with olive trees and late morning sun rays kissing it.
Crystal-clear waters gently lap the edge and there's a Mediterranean aroma of salt, sun, and olive-scented breeze filling the air. There's so much sense of peace here.

I extract the keys from the pockets of my shorts as I proceed forward on the rocky ground when my ankle almost twists. "Oh no!"

"Christ!" Areston catches me against him and swoops me up in his arms. "Who in the right mind wears stilettos in a place like this?"

"I do." I wrap my arms around his neck. "They aren't stilettos. They're Vivier."

He rolls his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I am fine. There is no need to  cradle me in your arms, you know? I can walk. I am not hurt." I grin.

"Maybe I just need an excuse to hold you," he murmurs, looking ahead. "Now are you planning on telling me where the hell we are?"

"You need to put me down so I can unlock the door."

"I don't trust you to not trip on this rocky surface and break your neck. Open it like this." He lowers himself so I can open the old fashion round shaped steel lock while being held in his arms.

"Tada!" I exclaim, removing the lock and nudging the door open with one hand.

A ghost smile appears on his face as he shakes his head in exasperation and crosses the threshold of the cute house with me in his arms.

The place is a powdery white dream. Minimalist built-in furnishings melting into soft curved edges and inspired rustic accents that are playing against rough textured surfaces.

"Whose place is this?" His eyes scan the place while standing in the small living room.

"Mine."

"What's going on?" He frowns.

I brush my lips against the corner of his mouth. "As much as I love being in your arms, would you please put me down now so I can formally introduce you to my newest purchase?"

"No," he responds bluntly, still looking around as he takes a couple of steps forward that leads to the small well-equipped traditional-meets-contemporary kitchen with light blue furniture against the white-washed walls.

"Start talking, baby. What the fuck is going on?"

I grin ear-to-ear, clinging tightly to him. "While you were caught up in a meeting this morning, I asked Horace to accompany me here. I wanted to see this village Pavlos keeps boasting about. I came across an ad for sale and I couldn't help myself come see it. This place felt like it was calling me so I bought it. I wanted to show this to you myself so I asked Horace not to tell you anything about this."

He doesn't speak a word. His face remains impassive as he inspects the place with me in his arms.

The small unit downstairs has only one bedroom in the house. It's airy and spacious. There's blue furniture of course. Blue bed. White sheet. White pillows. White curtains. The Mediterranean style en-suite is in consonance with the typical Greek architecture. It has mixed white and blue mosaic tiles between brass sconces, blue greek-style rugs, and  blue ceramic clawfoot bathtub.