Page 93 of Rival to the Billionaire

"I am," I mumble. "And so are you. That's good."

"Yeah," she says, stepping inside. "I usually reserve my good black dresses for funerals." She smiles a little. "But I think this one is warranted."

"Yes. This one is. Everything's on fire." I cross my arms over my chest and close the door. "I'm guessing me not answering the phone for days has given you a clue."

She nods. "It's a good thing it's 'Spaghetti Bolognese and Knitting' night. If it were 'Pints of Beer and Guns' night, I'd have been worried."

I laugh a little, letting the tears fall freely again. "I'm glad you came," I say simply, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand again. "Sorry you had to come all this way on a rainy night, though."

"It's fine," she says, nodding and stepping farther inside. "I mean, I had to share the meal I made for our knitting group with someone." She lifts a bag. "It's carne con frijoles and tortillas, and I made too much. I know you have a million of them in your fridge, but here," she says, taking off her black raincoat. "You can take a few more. Unless…I can cook up something else if you'd rather."

"No, no," I say quickly, feeling more tears surge inside me again. "That's fine."

"Come on," Carmina says gently. "You reek of sadness. Let's make you feel a little better."

Sitting down in my kitchen chair, I watch as Carmina pulls my spaghetti casserole dish from the oven and places it on my table. She places her own bag of food on the kitchen counter.

"Drink this," she says, coming back with a bottle of wine. "And then we'll eat until you're full and bursting at the seams. It's the only good part of knitting night."

I snort. I reach for the glass and pour myself half a cup. "That's why you came?"

Carmina nods and grabs a second bottle of wine from the bag, this one even bigger than the first. "Yes." She glances over, her classical red lips smirking. "I suck at knitting, and I can't figure out what half my stitches are, but it's a great excuse to meet up with the girls every two weeks and pretend I'm not obsessed with work."

"Is it working?" I ask, taking a sip of the wine.

"Not at all," she says, digging into my spaghetti casserole. "I'm obsessed." She points to the food on my table. "This needs marinara sauce."

"I know. I ordered some from the pizza pie place up the street."

"Nunh unh. Call them back and cancel that order right now. You have tomatoes?"

I nod, calling and canceling the order in seconds, and in the world's tallest heels, she walks over to my fridge and starts opening the doors.

“I’ll make the sauce." Carmina pulls out a bunch of stuff from my fridge. "It'll be a hell of a lot better than that processed crap you were about to poison us with."

I laugh. "Okay. You're the boss."

"Haven't you figured that out by now? I didn't fly all the way out to Tokyo and back, running down our CMO, for nothing. I'm a bossy chick. And as one, it's my duty to take care of my fellow bossy chicks." She grins at me. "Now, don't say a word. You're going to let me commandeer your kitchen and cook you some damn marinara sauce. And then you're going to tell me everything. ¿Comprendes?"

I shake my head and reach for the wine again. "Okay," I say simply, taking another gulp of it. I'm nervous, but somehow tonight I feel more at ease than I have in a while.

Especially when Carmina takes out her phone, throwing on some Mexican music. The most ridiculously cheerful song I've ever heard blares from our speakers, and she starts dancing around the kitchen, whipping up a marinara sauce that is anything but poisony, filling my apartment with the scent of garlic and other spices.

"Wow. How do I always forget that you can cook like a pro?”

She shrugs her shoulders beneath her elegant black dress. "That's because I only whip it out for special occasions, like tonight."

I laugh and take another sip of wine, remembering, once again, that beneath her designer clothes and no-nonsense attitude, Carmina is a softie at heart.

A softie who happens to be one of the only people I trust with my heart.

“Thank you, Car,” I say simply.

"De nada. I just want you to be happy. I know how much you've been struggling with work…and everything else."

With that, Carmina brings over two plates, puts a big spoonful of spaghetti and meat sauce on each one, and tops it off with a generous sprinkle of parmesan and mozzarella.

Picking up the fork, I cut a bite of the dish before dragging it into my mouth. The sauce is sweet and tomatoes are ripe, just like I like them.

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