Page 25 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“I had some time on my hands.”

“Uh oh. That’s the face of a woman who needs a glass of wine. What happened?”

“I got fired.”

Her eyes widened. “No. Way. Those bastards!”

“It was my fault,” I admitted. I grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and opened it.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“That whole auction bid thing—it wasn’t a good look for the company. They said it jeopardized their reputation.”

“Ugh, reputation-schmeputation. Did you explain what happened?”

“I tried, but they weren’t hearing it. I had just started anyway.”

“Did you get severance?” she joked.

“Nope. Just my last check.” I laughed bitterly. “Guess that’ll make a nice going-away card when I frame it next to my unemployment notice.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s figure this out. How much do you have in savings?”

“Less than three thousand.”

“Rent’s due in two weeks,” she muttered, doing mental calculations. “Look, don’t stress. I’ll cover your share this month. You’ll find something by then—I know you will.”

Her confidence in me felt warm and reassuring, but it didn’t fix the pit in my stomach. “I hate this,” I said, tugging at my hair. “I hate feeling like I’m going to let you down. Or myself. I’m dragging you down. It’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to support me.”

Carla smiled. “Kaira, stop. People fall in love with you the second they meet you. Employers are no different. You’ll get a new gig, probably one that doesn’t suck. You didn’t even like that job!”

“That’s not the point,” I sighed. “Everyone needs money, and not everyone needs to like their job. Few people go to work because it’s fun. Besides, the one thing I love doing isn’t profitable.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” she said. She took a drink of her wine.

“I made dinner,” I said. “Spanakopita”

“Did you just sneeze again?”

I grinned. “Just wait. It looked good. I just hope it tastes as good.”

We dished up and chose to eat in front of the TV. After our meal, she stretched out. Her long legs flexed as she kicked one foot into the air, the delicate anklet on her ankle catching the light. Her job as a yoga instructor kept her nice and flexible.

“Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you to go for something you actually want. Like, I don’t know… writing?”

I rolled my eyes. “Here we go.”

“I’m serious! You’ve been talking about writing for years, Kaira. If you’re not going to take a shot at it now, when will you?”

“Writing doesn’t pay bills,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. “Do you know how hard it is to get a book in front of an agent? And then the agent has to get it in front of a publisher. But before any of that can happen, I have to actually write a book.”

“You wouldn’t know how hard it is. You’ve never tried.” Carla’s tone was gentle but firm, as it always was when she decided to nudge me toward a truth I didn’t want to face. “You just write these stories in your head and claim you want to be a writer. One of these days, you’ve got to take a chance on something you care about.”

“I care about being able to pay rent,” I muttered, but her words sank deep. “I don’t have time to write a book because I have to work a job that actually pays the bills.”

“You will. I’ll help you.” She shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “But come on—this is your chance. Don’t waste it. Tomorrow morning, you get your ass up and start writing.”

I didn’t have a good response. “We’ll see,” I said. “I’m going to read. I’ll see you in the morning.”