Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

She drew in a sharp breath. Someone was there. She
saw the shadow of a figure obscured behind a tree. Was
it a man? An animal? Were there vicious, man-eating animals
on Santorini?
Her peace was broken, smashed to bits. She felt her
heart nearly bouncing out of her chest.
Fear told her to sink her body back underwater, but a
bigger fear told her to run away. She pulled herself out of
the pond. The figure emerged.
It was Kostos.
She was staring directly at Kostos, and, far worse,
Kostos was staring directly at her. She was so stunned,
she took a moment to react.
“K-Kostos!” she shouted, her voice a ragged shriek.
“What are you—what—”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He should have averted his eyes,
but he didn’t.
In three steps she’d reached her clothes. She snatched
them and covered herself with the bundle. “Did you follow
me?” she nearly screamed. “Have you been spying
on me? How long were you here?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and muttered something in
Greek. He turned around and walked away.
Still soaking wet, she yanked on her clothes haphazardly.
In a storm of anger she threw her paint supplies
into her backpack, probably smearing her painting. She
strode across the meadow and toward the cliff, too mad
to link her thoughts.
He’d been following her! And if he . . . Her pants
109