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least he thought it
    was Demetra’s brother, because he hadn’t really taken much of a look before,
    and last night… last night was a bit of a blur. Whoa , indeed. The cheerleader
    with the stick legs had definitely filled out in all the right places—tanned,
    broad shoulders revealed by a sleeveless shirt; hairy, muscular calves
    beneath the knee-length shorts.
    That explained his dreams this morning.
    Louie slid his sunglasses up to perch in his short, wavy brown hair,
    blinking as his eyes adjusted to the interior. He appeared to be searching for
    something. Or someone. Peter had the strange feeling it was him.
    For the briefest second, his chest seized in panic. Had he done
    something crazy last night?
    “Am I drooling?” Annie mumbled. “I feel like I’m drooling.” Her
    gaze was positively predatory.
    “Hey,” Peter barked. “Table five needs more pita.”
    “But—”
    “Now.”
    “Yes, boss,” she sighed.
    Louie didn’t smile when he finally caught sight of Peter. Rather, his
    lips thinned and his jaw tightened beneath the expertly sculpted dark stubble.
    A surge of awareness swept up Peter’s spine, strong enough to make him
    take an inadvertent step back even though he was safely ensconced behind
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    the bar. “Hey,” he said cautiously as Louie strode his way, bringing with
    him a faint, familiar citrusy-spicy scent that made Peter’s skin tingle. Oh no.
    Right. Now he remembered. Those strong arms pulling him upright,
    that hard chest, the exotic smell of his skin.
    “This place hasn’t changed since I was a teenager,” Louie remarked as
    he glanced around in amazement.
    Peter cleared his suddenly dry throat. “What are you talking about? I
    replaced those booths a few years ago. And the bar is new. That was my idea,”
    he boasted defensively. Despite his father’s protests and tight pockets, Peter
    had been able to make a few improvements over the years. He’d fought long
    and hard to get the liquor license, since that’s where the real money was.
    He’d rebranded the menus, increased the marketing, and started setting up
    a booth at the annual Greek festival that drew in millions of attendees every
    summer. But every time he mentioned updating the place, his dad gave him
    the same “when I’m dead and you’re in charge, you can do as you wish”
    speech. Since that always cut a little too close to home for Peter’s comfort,
    that was usually the end of the discussion.
    “Music’s the same,” Louie pointed out with an arch of one eyebrow.
    Peter rolled his eyes. Piping through the dusty speakers was an endless
    god-awful loop of Greek pop singers from the eighties and nineties. “The
    playlist is strictly hands-off. I’m not allowed to touch it.”
    Louie cracked a smile for the first time, showing off a dimple in his
    right cheek, right where the stubble ended. The sight made Peter’s heart
    race. “Do you guys still make that spanakopita?”
    “Of course.” His grandmother’s recipe for the phyllo-wrapped spinach
    and cheese pie was legendary. One of their biggest sellers. “You know it?”
    “Know it? I practically lived on it. I used to hang out here a lot. Spent
    most of my allowance here.”
    “Really?” Peter frowned. He’d been cooking on the line since before
    he could drive. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
    “Why would you? You were a popular senior. And I was just Louie
    the Queerboy.”
    There was a bitter undercurrent in Louie’s voice that made Peter pause.
    The vicious nickname rekindled his memory and gave him an uncomfortable
    feeling. “Please tell me I never called you that.”
    “Not to my face. So you’re off the hook.” His tone was cool as he held
    up Peter’s missing phone. “Anyway, I think this is yours.”
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    “Yes! Thank you.” Peter took the phone gratefully. “I was dreading
    trying to track it down.”
    “You must have dropped it in the car.”
    “Thanks. You’re