For Real(58)

Will’s hat must really be lucky, because barely five minutes have passed before a frazzled-looking guy in an apron emerges and jogs toward one of the vans. Will’s on his feet in a flash, and he manages to catch the kitchen door. Before I have time to make a conscious choice, I’m slipping inside behind him.

The kitchen is at least fifteen degrees warmer than the outside air, and it’s swarming with a chaotic mob of caterers opening bottles and plating appetizers. Will leads me behind a rolling rack of silver trays and pulls me back down into a crouch. “Can you see the door to the dining room?” he whispers.

I peek around the edge of the rack and see a server pushing through a set of double doors on the other side of the room. “I think so,” I whisper back. “But there are, like, twenty people between here and there. We can’t exactly make a run for it.”

The doors slam open, and a red-faced man storms in and starts shouting in Greek. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it’s obvious none of it is friendly. I grip Will’s arm and squeeze farther behind the rack. “That guy is going to eat us,” I whisper.

A slow smile spreads across Will’s face. “Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

The voice is getting closer now, and a few feet from us a metal tray crashes to the floor so hard it must have been thrown. “Will, I really think we should go.”

He shakes his head. “No need. It’s time for Plan B.”

Before I can ask what Plan B is, Will grabs my shoulders, pulls me out from behind the rack, and presses me up against a refrigerator in full view of the entire catering staff. And then his arms are around me, and his mouth is on mine.

Will Divine is kissing me.

My brain’s first reaction is to panic—I’m so completely unprepared for this—but my body has other ideas. Before I’ve even processed what’s happening, I’m pulling him closer and kissing him back, just like I did in my dream last night. His hand slides up my spine and cradles the back of my neck, and I fear I might melt into a Claire-shaped puddle on the floor. His mouth is soft and urgent, teasing my lips apart, and he tastes like peppermint. Nerve endings I didn’t even know I had ignite like matches as my fingers slip under his hat and tangle in his hair. I never, ever want this to stop.

Not nearly enough time has passed before I hear the angry Greek voice again, and a pair of rough hands separates us. My mask has been knocked askew, but out of half an eyehole, I see Angry Catering Guy, flecks of spit flying from his mouth as he bellows at us in Greek. I look around frantically, unsure which way to run.

But Will seems totally calm, even as Angry Catering Guy grips him by the front of his T-shirt with fingers thick as salamis. “Miláte angliká?” Will asks innocently. It means “Do you speak English?”—it’s the one Greek phrase we got our cabdriver to teach us on the way from the airport to the beach. I have no idea how Will was able to remember it under pressure.

Angry Catering Guy looks confused for a second, and then his face turns the color of a boiled beet. “Stupid kid!” he sputters. “No! No kiss here! Out!”

He shoves us toward the dining room. Will grabs my arm, and we stumble across the kitchen, through the doors, and straight into the party.

“Yes!” Will whisper-screams. He pumps the air with his fist, then picks me up and spins me around. “That was brilliant! You were brilliant! Well played, Claire.”

I wasn’t playing, I want to say as he sets me back on my feet, and for a second, I worry that the kiss was just a ploy, not a romantic gesture. Maybe he would’ve kissed anyone with that same passionate intensity if it meant getting into the party. Then again, I’m not sure it’s possible to fake those kinds of feelings. Maybe he’d been wanting to kiss me since we started off on our walk, and he was just waiting for the perfect dramatic moment. The way he’s looking at me now, his eyes full of excitement and tenderness, makes me believe it was real.

I hope my mask covers enough of my face that he can’t see how flustered I am. “Good Plan B,” I say, still a little out of breath.

Will reaches out and unwinds a strand of my hair from the peacock plumes on my mask. “Sorry, I tangled you up a little.”

He certainly did. “That’s okay,” I breathe.

His lucky hat is slightly askew where I pushed my fingers under it. I think about fixing it for him, but I like being able to see the evidence of our kiss on his body, so I leave it as it is. A word pops into my head to describe how I feel as I gaze at him: smitten. It’s hardly my fault. Whole religions have been founded around divine beings smiting things.

Will smiles as he looks around the room. “This party looks even better from the inside, huh?”

I’ve been so focused on him that I haven’t even bothered to look around. But it is pretty amazing. There’s a live band in the corner, a guitarist and a drummer and a guy playing what might be a mandolin, all of them singing in warm, caramel-rich voices. There are about a billion candles on the bar and the small tables lining the edges of the room, and the orange glow makes everyone look young and beautiful. The smells of meat and fried cheese and alcohol waft through the air and vie for my attention.

Quietly, Will slips his hand into mine and holds it tightly. Before this moment, he’s only ever held my hand to quell a panic attack, but it feels natural to do it just for the sheer pleasure of pressing our palms together. It feels like something we do every day.