Page 27 of Play for Power (Central Sparks #3)

“I know karate!” I squeal, jumping up so fast my heart is in my throat and I think the pressure sprained an ovary because there is a stinging pain in that region. “Mellow?” I ask, confused, looking at the soft and aged face of my ninera . Oh thank God. I absolutely do not know karate.

Carmela was my nanny growing up. She basically raised me and is like a third abuela. Definitely more of an abuela than my two actual blood-related ones. I call her Mellow because when I was a kid, I couldn’t quite get the pronunciation right and, well, it stuck.

“Mija. I brought you some soup. Your mother said you may not be feeling well, you don’t answer your phone?”

Those sadists. This is their idea of spying on me.

Carmela was let go the moment I moved away to college and she was, for all intents and purposes, exiled from the family—of course, unless they needed something from her.

She ended up finding a new family, whose children she cared for in the city, and I make an effort to see her every once in a while…

I had been slacking, though. And my parents knew that if they mentioned me, Carmela would come running.

I release the breath I had held in when I was prepared to fight an intruder and stumble over to Carmela and her open and waiting embrace.

I fall against her, letting her softness envelop me, hold me, and rock me.

This is how I know everything is shit, because as a rule of thumb, I don’t cuddle. I don’t let myself be… held.

Cue full-body shiver.

I sigh like a content panda into her arms.

“Oh, mija. Estás bien? ”

“No. Nope. It’s all very bad. Yo tengo la regla. ” She titters a laugh in my ear, releasing me from the embrace, her hands holding firm on my shoulders.

“ Aye, you’ve had seventeen years to deal with that, you should be un experta , no?

” She smiles gently and I can’t help but laugh softly, turning and heading back to the couch.

Am I an expert in menstruating? Obviously.

Am I an expert at compartmentalizing and pretending like loneliness hasn’t been kicking my ass since the moment I kicked Caleb out?

The answer is a complete and utterly miserable no.

I am in no way an experta. I’ve had to physically lock my phone away every time I thought about asking him to hang out—because we are fuck buddies, we are not hang out, be friends, get to know each other personally buddies.

I leave her question unanswered.

Carmela puts away what I think is a few months’ worth of groceries into the cupboard—not sure who in the hell is turning all those items into meals because it sure as shit isn’t me—before she makes her way over to the couch, lifting my legs to sit and laying them back down on her lap.

“I can’t remember the last time you let me hold you, are you all right, mija ? Is it just the monthly?” I keep my attention on the TV but am forced to look at her when she squeezes my foot.

I’m not about to discuss any of the possible things that could be making this mood worse, so instead I lie as much as I can, without the Rosie experta catching on to it.

“Just friend stuff. It’ll be fine in a few days. And I need the raging red devil to leave my body.”

“Mmmm,” she replies, a knowing look on her face. “Your apartment smells like lemon and lavender,” she says with a hint of accusation in her tone. I turn to look back at the TV, not really hearing anything and silently cursing that Carmela knows me so well.

“So? That doesn’t mean anything,” I mumble, but I catch Carmela’s breathy laugh as she squeezes my foot again, forcing me to look back at her.

“You’re a stress cleaner.”

“I blame you for that.” I gently kick her hand with my foot, and she playfully grips it tighter. I’m not able to keep my eyes locked on her all-seeing gaze.

“Someone had to teach you something useful.” Carmela snickers under her breath, mumbling Spanish curses I am sure are aimed at my parents.

I know how to clean—which is saying something for a rich girl who grew up with nannies, butlers, cleaners, and the rest. But Carmela taught me.

She always said that if I was lucky enough to fall in love that I’d want to be able to do these things.

Not because that’s a woman’s job but because when you love, you want to be able to do nice things for them.

She said any man worth my heart would have been taught the same.

She would also add that it’s just a basic life skill and I needed those if I was ever going to escape my parents.

The sentiment was sweet, I just didn’t know how to break it to her that there was no escaping, and love wasn’t something in my future.

My future has been planned since I was an embryo.

I wouldn’t ever need to lift a finger and I’d forever want for nothing.

But the consequence of that is that love is off the table.

Not that I give being in love much weight; it makes you weak.

I took the life lessons Carmela gave me anyway, but held tight to the principle that it was for the purpose of one day maybe at least trying to escape my parents and becoming self-reliant.

She also attempted to teach me how to cook.

After a few prayers and swearing off the devil, she gave up, saying she would pray that I will always be surrounded by people who could cook for me so I wouldn’t starve to death.

Then I found Casey and that is how I know soul mates exist.

“I’m not good company today, you don’t have to hang around.” I sigh, falling deeper into the couch, and she just tsks, patting my leg.

“I like your company in any form. I brought cards?” She nudges my legs and I side-eye her, not able to turn down the cheeky smile she has flashed in my direction. She knows me far too well, and given that my love for games came from her, it’s hard to turn her down.

“I’ll make some empanadas.”

I gasp, nodding enthusiastically. I love her empanadas.

“I’ll grab the wine.”