“It’s my full name. The only one who uses it is my father. Or my mother when she’s really pissed at me,” I tell her, leaning against the counter and looking at her.

“I like it.” She comes to me. “A lot.”

“Do you?” I push her hair behind her ears and rub her cheek with my thumb. “There’s a lot that you don’t know about me.”

“Well,” she says. “I know that from now on, I’m calling you Markos.”

“Why?” I tilt my head to the side.

“Because it’s original, and it’s your name.” She then gets really close. “And because it sounds hot.” And right before I’m about to pick her up and place her ass on the counter, the oven beeps. She claps her hands together. “Dinnertime.”

I walk over to the oven, grabbing the mitts and taking the two aluminum trays out of the oven. “I hope you are good with grilled salmon.”

“I am,” she says, opening the cabinets to get plates. After her third try, she finally grabs two plates and comes over. “It smells divine.” She places the plate down, and I fix her plate with the salmon, quinoa, and vegetables.

“You grab the plates, and I’ll get something to drink,” I tell her. “Wine?”

“Yes, please. White, if you have it,” she says, grabbing both plates, “but red is okay also.” She walks through the doorway to the dining room, and I grab the chilled bottle of white wine and bring it with me along with two water bottles. Placing the items on the table, I walk over to the china cabinet in the corner grabbing a glass for her wine.

She sits down to the right of the head of the table, and I have to say, having her here in my space means everything. Now I have to just keep her here. I uncork her wine and pour some into her glass. She waits for me to sit down and then picks up her glass. “Santé.” Health, she says in French.

“Santé,” I repeat, grabbing my bottle of water.

She takes a sip of wine and then grabs her fork. “This is really good,” she says after she takes her first bite. “So you speak Greek?”

I nod. “Not as much as I did when I was in Greek school.”

“You went to Greek school?” She smiles. “Talking during sex just got moved up a notch.”

“Is that so?” I ask her. “I could be saying anything, and you wouldn’t know.”

“That’s the whole intrigue. It’s mysterious,” she says.

I laugh at her and take another bite of the salmon. “Should I ask you to talk dirty to me in French?”

She takes a sip of her wine. “If you like to. I usually only bring out the French when I’m annoyed or pissed.” She takes another bite. “I haven’t been either with you yet.”