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The trio stopped two steps shy of Rose and Stavros.
Mr. P said, “Ms. Berret, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook her hand, and she felt the calluses on his palms.
“Pleased to meet you.” She wished for a drink of water to satisfy her suddenly dry throat.
“This is Nefeli,” he said.
The girl dropped a curtsey.
“And this is Adonis.”
The little boy made a slight bow.
Then the children launched themselves at Stavros, with a cry of Papa. He took them in his arms and hugged them before gesturing to Rose.
Astonishment temporarily rooted her in place. Why were the children hugging the head of security and calling him papa? Another sign of the lack of love coming from their father. Anger on the children’s behalf flared within her, erasing all nerves.
She lowered her body to match the children’s height and shook their hands. “I’ve discovered a secret,” she told the children. “The staff only use one name instead of titles. So you may call me Rose.” She looked up at Mr. P. “If that’s alright?”
He flicked the barest of glances at Stavros and nodded to Rose.
Adonis placed his hands on Rose’s cheeks and turned her head side to side. “You’re pretty,” he said. “I’m four. How old are you?”
“Adonis,” Mr. P’s voice held a note of warning. “It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.” He frowned.
“Your father is right,” Rose said to Adonis. “But I don’t mind telling you. I’m thirty. I had my birthday a few weeks ago.”
“Did you have balloons and a cake? Did all of your friends give you presents?”
Rose laughed. “I’m afraid not. No balloons, cake, or presents.”
His brown eyes widened. “No presents? How can you have a birthday without presents?” Adonis lowered his voice. “Are you on the naughty list?”
Rose held in her laughter at this serious question. “I’m not on the naughty list,” she assured him. “Sometimes when you grow up, birthdays aren’t as important to celebrate as when you were a child.”
He turned horrified eyes on the two men. “You mean when I grow up, I won’t get presents? No one will care about my birthday?”
Oh, dear. Rose had definitely said the wrong thing. She was off to a bad beginning.
“Could we give her presents?” Nefeli asked. “And a party?” She turned brown puppy-dog eyes on the men.
“Of course,” Mr. P said. “We’ll have to plan a party for Ms. Berret, er, Rose.”
Nefeli took Rose’s hand. “What kind of cake do you like?”
“My favorite is opera cake. I’m not sure you have that in Greece.”
“What’s in it?” Nefeli twirled a lock of hair.
“Almond sponge cake, coffee syrup, chocolate ganache, coffee buttercream, and chocolate glaze.”
“I bet Dianthe could make that,” Nefeli said to her brother.
“Dianthe can make anything,” he agreed.
“Who’s Dianthe?” Rose asked.
“Our cook,” Nefeli said. “She makes the bestspanakopitain all of Greece!”