Page 93 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

Her tone didn’t match its usual level on the snark-o-meter. She sounded heartfelt.

To make matters worse, she touched me. Just a hand on my arm, but it was enough to click my heart rate up a few notches.

I sidestepped from her reach.

She pouted that bottom lip.

For a minute, I thought she was going to ask me why I kept doing that, but to my relief, she didn’t.

“I’ve seen you miss out on plenty of deals. This one is bothering you more than any other, and I know it’s because of her. You really care about her, don’t you?”

I did care about Grandmother. I’d allowed myself to believe things between us would be all right since Mom had sent the invitation. I’d even prayed—something I hadn’t done in a long time.

“How do you feel about Mexican food?” I said, not giving Rosabel a direct answer.

I needed time to sort through my thoughts. Maybe I could do that over food.

“I like Mexican food,” she said after several moments.

I fell into step beside her once more, keeping my hands behind my back as we walked. Rosabel peered into shop windows, stopping and commenting on certain things, until we arrived at Amigos.

Mariachi music greeted our ears, along with the scent of cooked meat and spices. Most of the tables inside the dim restaurant were occupied. A waitress with dark hair, thick eyeliner, and wearing a black apron over her dress greeted us.

“Just the two of you?”

“Can we have a table outside?” I asked, gesturing to the collection of tables beneath an awning. The best part was, we had a clear view of the main thoroughfare.

“Sure,” she said, reaching for a pair of menus and handing them to us. “We’ll be right with you.”

The traffic and trolleys that had been slowly grazing their way through town had been cleared. Police officers and a few others stalked right down the center of the road, waving and monitoring the crowds filling the sidewalks.

“Looks like the show’s about to start,” I said, leading the way to a table.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit,” she said.

We landed a table close to the railing, and soon enough, the waitress brought drinks and took our orders. We sat in awkward silence, and I indulged in the chips and salsa she’d placed in the center of our table.

Not long after, the waitress brought our food. I lifted my fork, ready to dig in, but several loud honks split the air.

Rosabel lowered her fork and turned in her seat.

The crowd’s eagerness grew deafening as a sleek, blue 1950s Cadillac coursed down the street. It was followed by a black Model-T Ford that looked to be something about a hundred years old, the kind without glass in its windows.

Rosabel grinned at me, digging into her enchilada and taking a bite before turning her attention back to the street.

Her enthusiasm was contagious. I couldn’t help my smile and I watched her reaction to each car more than I watched the cars themselves. Old Lincolns—refurbished Fords from the 1950s, I’d guess—cruised through town in a long procession, the drivers honking and waving from within the cabs.

People whooped and cheered for their favorites. Rosabel even commented on a cherry-red convertible that in any other instance, I’d be ready to surprise her with, because that was how I rolled.

Soon enough, the procession ended. This time, a different waitress with fiery orange hair and a tag pronouncing her name as Mollie left our black folder on the table between our plates.

I reached for my wallet when Rosabel held out a hand.

“I’ve got this.”

What did she think she was doing? She and I both knew things were tight for her.

“Don’t,” I said.

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