“Did my eyes deceive me, yesterday—” I sigh. “Maria.” “Or did I spy our lovely Griffin—” “Maria.” “Skulking out of the flat at an unholy hour, looking rather pleased with himself?” “Maria!” But I’m grinning. She slaps my shoulder with a tea towel and says, “It’s only been a bloody week. A week, and there’s romance!” “It’s not romance.” “Get inside, you slut, and tell me all about it.” “There’s nothing to tell,” I protest, but by the time my arse meets her kitchen chair I’m already babbling, “He liked my cooking,” like a fool. I am a happy fool.
