Page 24 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

I flashed my most dashing smile. “My official statement is you all smell like desperation.”

The cameras clicked furiously as I climbed into my car, slamming the door behind me. I started the engine and revved it up. They were doing their best to lock me in, but they were just scared enough about what I might do and backed up.

I pulled away and hit the gas once I made it onto the street. I leaned back in my seat, loosening my tie. The board’s words echoed in my mind: Nobody wants to take risks with an asshole.

Fine. I would clean up my act. Or at least, I’d find a way to make people think I had.

For now, though, I’d stick to what I knew. Which, apparently, was being the villain.

9

KAIRA

Igot home, feeling incredibly guilty for being at home in the middle of the day. Carla was working two jobs, and I had none.

Zero.

I was dead weight. Once again, I was unemployed. I didn’t think I was a total failure, but I couldn’t seem to find a job that worked well for me.

I changed into cleaning clothes. I was going to be the house bitch for at least a couple days. While my roomie worked, I was going to scrub the apartment from top to bottom. Maybe by then, I’ll have figured out what I was going to do.

And I would make her a late dinner. She typically got off at nine or ten on the weeknights. I pulled my hair up and started with the fridge. I pulled out a few containers of Chinese food and gave them the sniff test.

“Good Lord.” I nearly gagged. “Who ordered the poopoo platter?”

I kept cleaning and tossing stuff in the trash. By the time I finished, it looked like we were impoverished. I supposed we were.

Well, I was.

I continued my cleaning spree in the kitchen, even cleaning the dishwasher before I loaded it. The place was sparkling clean and ready to be cooked in. But it was still early. I busted out the Pledge and dusted the living room before vacuuming and mopping.

By the time I was done, I collapsed onto our couch, breathing heavily. The apartment smelled faintly of citrus and soap.

“Maybe I should become a housekeeper or something,” I mumbled to myself, eyes resting on the spotless kitchen.

With a sigh, I pushed myself up from the couch and walked over to our small bookshelf. There were a handful of dusty cookbooks there that Carla and I kept promising each other we’d try cooking from one day. Maybe today was the day.

Pulling out a book titled International Delights, I started flipping through the pages, each one containing exotic dishes from all around the world. As I skimmed through, one dish caught my eye—Spanakopita, a Greek spinach and feta cheese pastry.

“Why not?” I murmured to myself. My pencil traced down the list of ingredients I’d need. Flour, feta cheese, spinach. Most of them already in our pantry or fridge.

I put on an apron and got to work. I thought about last night. How ridiculous was it that a single stupid sneeze cost me my job? Utter bullshit.

I could not say the night had been worth it, either. Hanging out with the insufferable Roman Kelly was not worth being jobless. If he would have let me go back and apologize and fix things, I would still have my job, crappy as it was.

But there was no going back, only forward. I chopped the spinach. Carla would appreciate this meal, I hoped. It was a small thing, cooking dinner, but it was better than just springing the bad news on her.

If life kept tossing me out of jobs because of absurd reasons or bad luck intersecting with bizarre circumstances, maybe I should stop relying on traditional jobs. Maybe I could do some kind of freelance stuff.

Carla texted and let me know she was heading home early and offered to pick up pizza. I quickly replied and told her I made dinner.

She stopped almost immediately when she walked through the door. She looked around and then at me.

“Wow,” she said.

“I cleaned up.”

“Is the pope coming over or something?”