Page 25 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

“Carina,” Dina’s voice lowers, the way it does when she’s about toMom Voiceme.

“Is he wrong? We just paid him.”

“I know,” I groan, already flipping open my laptop and logging into our bank account. “We werealreadya month behind, though. No worries. You just take care of the front while I figure this out.”

Dina crosses her arms. “If I need to drop out of my classes?—”

I snap my head up so fast I nearly get whiplash.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Her education has been on hold long enough, thanks to life, money, and that one time we accidentally adopted a runaway cat that cost us an entire month’s rent in vet bills.

But I’ll be damned if I let her put her dreams on hold again just because we’re still playing financial hopscotch with Mr. O’Doyle.

No. Freaking. Way.

Plus, I love Mr. Whiskers. He’s the only date I’ve had in months.

She sighs, watching me like she knows I’m about to do something reckless. Which, let’s be real, I probably am.

But it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

I just need to find an extra thousand bucks somewhere before Friday.

Totally doable.Right?

Right.

“Shoo while I do this,” I tell her.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be up front if you need me,” she says, and I wave her off.

A couple of hours, a few deep breaths, and some creative financial acrobatics later, I manage to wiggle things around enough to send that creeper his rent money.

Good news: we’re in the clear for another month.

Bad news: I think my bank account just burst into tears.

We really need a better place to live.

Something with, oh, I don’t know, functioning plumbing and a landlord who doesn’t lurk around like a horror movie villain.

But for now? We’re stuck. So, we make the most of it.

Tonight is special.

It’s the first time all three of us—me, MJ, and Dina—are closing the pizzeria together, and judging by the empty display case, it was a damn good night.

Eduardo, our night-shift cleanup guy, is already in the kitchen doing his thing. That man is a saint.

He hums while he works, totally unbothered by the pizza flour and chaos we leave in our wake.

“Come on, Carina,” MJ calls, waving me over. “I poured us all a glass of sweet tea.”

MJ, ever the mother hen, always making sure we sit down, breathe, and act like actual humans instead of exhausted pizza gremlins.

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