5
ROSE
Icleared my throat and flipped open the folder labeledPhoenix Steele.
“Would you like some water?”
He lifted the bottle he’d helped himself to from my mini-fridge—under my desk.
“Okay, then. So. Have you been to a counselor before?”
“Is your last name really Floris?”
I blinked. “… Yes.”
“You’re Italian, then.”
“No, I’m American. My grandparents are Italian.”
“Both sides?”
“Just one.”
He plucked a green crystal from a decorative bowl I had on the coffee table. He turned it over in his hands.
“Vesuvianite,” he observed.
My brows raised. “That’s right.”
“A mineral found at the base of Mount Vesuvius.”
“Hence the name.”
“Hence.” He mocked me. “Have you been?”
“To Mount Vesuvius?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“To Italy.”
I shifted. “No.”
“So you just think they’re pretty, then.”
“Vesuvianite is said to have healing properties. To override the energy of the ego and aid in spiritual growth and forward movement.” Note to self to get an entire truckload for this guy.
“If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing,” I repeated, rather condescendingly.
“Floris.” He repeated my last name as if deciding whether to believe me or not. The emerald green stone sliding through his fingertips. “Rose Floris?”
Where the heck was he going with this? “That’s correct.”
“Floris means flower in Italian.”
