Page 78 of Play for Power (Central Sparks #3)

“No, pretty girl.” I sigh, reaching over to pry her hands away and then lacing my fingers through one hand.

My breath briefly stills in my lungs when she allows the touch.

“I’ve never even been myself. I promise you’ll like it.

” I bring our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles, unable to fight my smile when all she does is roll her eyes.

“And lucky for you, we’re here.” The Uber comes to a stop as Rosie scans the area through the window.

There isn’t much to see from where we are, because it’s around the corner, but after we say a quick thank-you to our driver and climb out, the sound of the music tells us where we need to go.

Rosie has a small crease between her brows as she looks at me for a moment, but her expression is otherwise wholly unreadable.

I really hadn’t thought about how nervous I was until right at this moment; it feels like my heart is in my throat, my palms clammy, and I work to wipe them on my pants.

Of course Rosie is the most impatient person on the planet and is already stalking around the corner. I jog a few paces to catch up to her and we round the corner together.

The quick hitch of her breath over the sound of the festive music has me holding mine.

“Surprise?” I hitch my shoulders, nervous as all get out, hoping I haven’t overstepped and that this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.

“What is this?” she whispers, her attention on the celebrations in front of us, a soft smile slowly spreading across her face.

“Well,” I scratch the back of my head, looking over the little community I found online who look like they are now having the time of their lives, “I did some research about that festival you said your family celebrates? Fiestas Patrias ? Your family is mostly from Chile, yeah?” Her head snaps in confirmation.

“Well, this is them celebrating. I figured you’d want to escape a stuffy penthouse luncheon and celebrate the right way.

” I let my hand drop from where I’m nervously scratching the back of my head, my eyes reluctantly meeting Rosie’s and they look suspiciously wet as she stares agape at me.

Fuck. Maybe I fucked up, maybe this was a bad idea.

I don’t know her culture, I was an idiot for even?—

Rosie launches herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and I quickly wrap my arms around her waist, holding her against me.

I let go of the anxious breath and let my nose fall into her hair, the skin between her neck and shoulders, breathing her in before pulling back to peer down at her large almond eyes, the swirls of caramel and whiskey that now shine with something I can’t name.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” she murmurs and then her eyes drop a tear.

It still baffles me when I see her cry, considering she spent so long never showing any emotion.

I realize that I’m quickly falling for each new version she shows me, and each time there is something new, I steal it and file it away, loving that I get all these sides of her no one has ever seen before.

She clears her throat and disentangles herself from our embrace as she spins and takes in the street in front of us.

It’s been barricaded off, set up like a festival, food truck carnival, or parade; something of that nature.

There are folklore dancers dressed in what I assume is the national or historical attire, musicians, and many, many stalls of traditional Chilean food and a lot of different games and activities.

We quickly get lost among the celebrations.

The closer we walk into the party, the wider Rosie’s smile grows.

She greets a few people and then she is suddenly laughing and talking animatedly to the stall owners, to other patrons, and even a couple of dancers, who are set to perform the Cueca , which is apparently the traditional dance of Chile.

I don’t follow along well with the conversations; she speaks primarily in Spanish, but I don’t much care.

I try to join in where I’m needed, but otherwise, I am just happy to follow behind while Rosie enjoys her day.

I let her drag me around, and we gorge ourselves on the anticuchos, which are skewers of the most delicious grilled meats I’ve ever tasted, and the sopaipillas and pebre, a pastry with a green salsa concoction that I’m mentally noting to find a recipe for later.

Rosie does her best to teach me some of the Spanish words and tells me different things about the food and the celebration itself.

A lot of what she tells me, she explains her ninera taught her.

She used to dream of coming to these types of celebrations; Carmela would talk about them all the time.

Rosie immerses herself completely, stopping at a kite-making area, which I am apparently terrible at.

Rosie laughs her pretty face off when I trip multiple times during the sack race.

There is also the rayuela, which is some game with a disc.

Rosie managed to flirt her way into a win, though the old man was aware of her little game; Rosie’s smile is just pretty enough that he went easy on her.

And though I seem to stick out like a sore thumb with my horrible game skills, Rosie has never looked happier, at least until she spotted some of the food stalls, turned, fisted her hand in my shirt, and all but dragged me to it.

“You’re going to love this.” She sits us down at a table and chairs, our plates loaded, and then she holds up a green-looking sausage thing. “Here, try.”

“I saw these…I didn’t pick one up for a reason.” I pout at the thing hovering in front of my mouth.

“Don’t be a baby, eat.” I love that her accent slips through now that she’s spent a day celebrating her culture.

I love that she bites her lip as she smiles at me, and the sparkle in her eyes looks like she’s had a whole new part of life breathed into her.

I feel myself sag against my chair. Seeing her like this is oddly… peaceful.

“Just tell me what it is,” I hedge, raising my hands.

“It’s like a corn…thing. Have you ever had tamales?

” I raise a brow in confusion and she grunts.

“Just eat it already!” She shoves it in my face again and I lean forward, taking a bite of the corn thing.

She watches me with wide eyes, and I take a moment to savor the flavors on my tongue.

To my complete surprise, it’s delicious. Savory but also a little sweet.

“Yum.” I hum over the mouthful and her smile grows.

“Right! Ninera used to make these when we’d have the Fiestas Patrias at home. This and her empanadas are the best.” Her eyes go back to her plate, but I love the look of joy spreading across her face as she speaks about Carmela.

“I’d love to meet her someday,” I say without even thinking about the words. They just come out. And the reality that I said them out loud has me breathing in too quickly and choking on leftover food and air.

I try for a quick recovery, taking a drink to clear my scratchy throat and finding Rosie’s gaze again.

Her cheeks are lightly pink, perhaps less from a blush and more from the excitement of the day and the games we’ve played, but she playfully pouts as she looks me over and then smiles with a nod. “Okay, sure.”

Really? Oh. Oh, I’m nervous. My heart rate pounds and I feel like it’s about to climb out of my throat.

“Though if you think I give you a hard time?—”

“I imagine she is where you get your fire from,” I tease.

It doesn’t take much to work out that her parents were simply DNA providers; Carmela raised this strong woman in front of me, and I’d really like the chance to thank her for it.

Rosie glows with her bright smile, continuing to eat her food.

We both dig in, and I especially polish off all the barbequed meats.

The beef steaks and pork sausages were a win, as were the barbecued onions and corn.

What flavors they used, I haven’t got a clue, but everything is mouthwatering. I’d take the pebre by the bucket load.

“Do you eat much Chilean food at home?” I realize I never see her ask for or eat any of this when I’m around. Her attention remains on her plate as she picks away and answers.

“No, I’m not much of a cook, even if I wanted to, I’d just ruin it anyway.

” She shovels a mouthful, a peaceful smile across her face.

“I always wanted to be that person that could turn up to a friend’s house with a plate of, like, pastel de choclo or even empanadas , like Ninera always would.

But I can barely make it through pouring a bowl of cereal without making a mess. ” She laughs self-deprecatingly.

“We can do it together,” I say, shoving a few pieces of deliciously barbequed meat into my mouth.

“You’re going to make Chilean food for me?”

“ With you. I know my way around a kitchen, we’ll do it together.” She sits up a bit straighter her fork dropping slowly to the plate as she narrows her eyes at me.

“Why?” She tilts her head, almost like a confused puppy.

“Why not? You want to eat more food that helps you feel connected to your culture, I know how to cook. Though I might mess up a few of the recipes to begin with, I don’t see why we can’t try.

Maybe Carmela has some hints for us.” When she still looks confused, I move a bit closer to her, running a finger delicately over her hand.

“Rosebud, I cook for you all the time, what’s the difference? ”

“You make me pancakes. I’d hardly call that cooking,” she says quietly, and when her smile still remains hidden, I take another stab.