Roman sought Flora early that evening. Right there, in the kitchen where she rarely allowed people in, they discussed important matters.
“You were right, Fi,” he said in earnest the moment he sat down. “She is indeed quite the fit for me.”
“Rose isn’t just a pretty face,” she retorted in a soft tone of voice.
The words, albeit simple in nature, seemed to hold a subtle warning. She was telling him not to mess this up in her own sweet motherly way, and Roman merely nodded at her.
Flora placed a cup of chamomille tea in front of him, which he grabbed almost immediately, revelling in its warmth.
“You finished off that coward, I hope?” Then came her question.
Roman could bet everything he owned that Flora had heard from the overly talkative Enzo — the guy needed to be taught a lesson — ho
