Clearly, this reckless act carried more risk and weight—and yet, just at the moment, it felt absolutely right.
She’d unpack first, she decided. She wouldn’t feel settled until she did. And then she’d set up her easel . . . maybe outside, try a chalk study of the gardens. Or try a watercolor. She rarely used that medium, but—
“What’s your vote?” Riley demanded.
“Sorry, what?”
“Food or destination? You’re the tie breaker.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Tie breaker,” Riley insisted. “It has to matter. Bran’s for getting there. I’m for food.”
“I don’t want to be the tie breaker.”
“You’re stuck with it. He’s all ‘there’s food in the villa’—the caretakers had it stocked and we’ve got the green light to use what we want, but we have to get there, then throw something together. Can anybody cook?”
“Of course I can cook,” Sasha began, and immediately saw her mistake. “I’m absolutely not going to be in charge of the kitchen.”
A big, beautiful kitchen, she remembered, and she wouldn’t mind making a meal or two, but—
“Somebody has to be. If you want something fried up on a Coleman stove, I’m your girl, otherwise, I’m sandwiches and stirring. I can stir. And chop,” she added. “I’m hell on chopping.”
“I don’t know how to cook for people.”
“What do you cook for?” Bran wondered. “Bears?”
“Myself. But—”
“I’m not bad at breakfast.” Bran rolled right over her objections. “But I doubt anyone’s up for a full fry every meal. Sidari’s not far, for going out to eat, but if we’re wanting more privacy to discuss our business, a home-cooked seems the thing.”
“Sasha’s definitely elected. Popular vote.”
“I abstain.” Honestly, she felt a tickle of panic in her throat at being voted in charge of anything. “Or abdicate.”
Miles flew by as they argued about it, and as Sasha began to see herself in a losing battle.
“We’re definitely stopping for lunch—tie broken—and if anyone’s hungry tonight, they can eat one of Riley’s famous sandwiches.”
“My specialty.”
“I’ll cook something tomorrow night after I’ve had time to think about it, but after that . . .”
She trailed off, struck by the sight of a hitchhiker, brim of his ball cap tipped down, his thumb cocked out.
“We still have to eat after that,” Riley said. “I get cranky when I’m hungry, and you don’t want me—”
“Stop!” She’d only glimpsed his face as they’d passed, but it was enough. “Stop the car!”
Riley reacted quickly, hit the brakes. “What’s the deal?” she demanded as she swerved to the side of the road.
“Back up. The hitchhiker. Turn around or back up. The hitchhiker.”
“Oh, yeah.” Riley tipped down her sunglasses, aimed a look as sarcastic as her tone. “We’ve got plenty of room for one more.”
Sasha pushed out of the jeep. “He is one more. Of us.”
“No shit?”
Bran boosted out of the jeep as Sasha took a step down the shoulder. “Just let’s hold here a minute then, darling. He’s coming to us. Let’s gauge our ground first.”
He jogged up the road and still seemed to saunter, a pack hitched to his back, hiking boots worn and dusty. He wore the black ball cap over shaggy, dark blond hair.
His eyes, though she couldn’t see them behind the dark glasses, she knew to be gray.
He sent them a quick, sunny smile. “Kalimera,” he began. “Efkharisto, ah—”
“Don’t strain yourself,” Bran advised. “English works.”
“Good thing. Thanks for stopping.”
“American, are you? I’m surrounded.”
“Yeah. Sawyer, Sawyer King.” He added a fresh smile and a nod when Riley walked up.
“Where are you heading, Sawyer King?” she asked.
“Oh, around for now. A ride however far you’re going would work, but you look pretty packed in.”
“That we are,” Bran agreed. “We’re going a bit past Sidari. Bran Killian.”
“Irish, huh?” Sawyer accepted the offered hand. “Y’all vacating?”
“Not exactly.” Riley turned, looked meaningfully at Sasha. “Well?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Sawyer hooked a thumb in his belt loop—an easy stance—but clearly went on alert. “Sure of what?”
A picture could be worth any number of words, Sasha decided. “Can you wait a minute?”
“Yeah.” He flashed a grin—quick lightning—but stayed on alert. “I’ve always got time.”
She went to the jeep, leaned in to pull out her tote from where it was wedged on the floor of the backseat. She dug out her portfolio, then the sketch of the six.
She took it back to him, offered it. “I drew that about three weeks ago, in North Carolina—where I live.”
He studied it, took his sunglasses off, studied it a bit more. Yes, gray eyes, like evening mist over a shadowy lake.
He said, “Huh.”
“I know how strange it sounds—is—but I’ve got other drawings in here. Of us, of you—of this,” she said, waving her arms.
“Who are you?”
“Sasha Riggs, and this is Riley Gwin.”