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ONE
Sofia
On most days, it’s feast or famine atLa Oficina—my bar. But tonight is surprisingly steady and mellow, so I can’t hide a face-splitting grin when my two best friends show up with one of their coworkers from the hospital, and I actually get to hang out with them.
I don’t even go over to greet them before heading to the kitchen to put in their order that I know by heart. My best cook, Martín, glances at the order and his own grin grows wide. “Carolina is here?” he asks.
I nod. “So is Sara,” I say.
“¿La comelona?”
I laugh, but nod again. “You know what that means.”
“You need the salsa,” he says all businesslike.
TheSalsais Carolina’s mom’s recipe and a fan favorite on the menu, which means we run out on most days. Martín always hides a secret stash for when Sara comes by because she sulks if we’re out and don’t save her any.
I head to the table where I can already tell from Carolina’s furrowed brows—and from Sara looking everywhere but at her friends—that they are arguing about something with their coworker Mandy.
“How about you, Sofia? Are you free tomorrow night?” Mandy asks with hope in her eyes. She presses her palms together in front of her chest like a prayer and juts her lower lip into a pout.
“Oh, no. I don’t know what you three are fighting about, but I know I don’t want to be dragged into it. I just came to see what you want to drink.”
Carolina and Sara call out their drinks, and I repeat them to make a mental note of the order. “A beer and a Horsefeather. Coming right up. You, Mandy?”
Mandy relaxes her shoulders and shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Joe, my bartender and manager, is busy, so I go behind the bar to pour the drinks myself. When I get back to the table holding a tray of food and drinks, they eye me with conspiratorial smiles spreading across their faces.
Oh, no. This can’t be good. Carolina, Sara, and I have been best friends for a while now. Ever since Carolina, a doctor, helped me without charging me when I needed stitches. We became instant friends. Sara was a bonus—a sort of package deal—since she’s practically attached at the hip to Carolina. She is a nurse at the same hospital, Heartland Metro.
My bar sits conveniently in front of their emergency room entrance, so I see them quite often. And when those two women get together and look at me like they are looking at me now, I know they have something up their sleeves. Something I’m not going to like.
I set the platter, filled with zucchini blossom quesadillas fanned out into the shape of a flower, in the middle of the table. My cooks, Rubén and Martín, are artists, and they didn’t forget the salsa. Sara nearly starts drooling and is the first to dive in, followed shortly by Mandy and Carolina.
“What?” I ask and take a seat next to them.
“We think you should go with Mandy,” Carolina says, chewing on a bite of quesadilla, her thick, black brows shooting up along with her smile.
“You should totally go,” Sara adds in her signature bubbly voice that has grown on me over the years.
“Go where? I have no idea what you three are talking about.”
“Mandy has tickets to theIndustrial Novemberconcert tomorrow night,” Carolina says, turning her attention to Mandy, who is flashing me a toothy grin.
“I do! I called the radio station and got front row tickets and backstage passes. Can you believe it? I never win anything. I’m still on a high from it. But I have no one to go with me, and I really don’t want to go alone.”
I blink at Mandy. I barely know her through Carolina. Mandy is her research assistant at the hospital and a kick-ass artist, but we’ve never really socialized on our own. I’m not sure we have much in common. To be perfectly honest, I’ve avoided her. Mandy is super-hot, but she is also Carolina’s favorite research assistant, so I never dared spend time with her alone. Carolina would never forgive me if I did a number on Mandy.
“What about your cousins?” I ask. I know she is close friends with her two cousins.
“Tlali and Izel both have to work tomorrow. They get out way too late to make it to the concert.”
“I’m sorry, Mandy. Wish I could. But Friday nights are the busiest around here. It will be hard to get away.”
“Come on,” Carolina says. “You’re too much of a workaholic. When was the last time you took a night off?”
“Are you calling the kettle black there, Dr. Ramirez?” I ask Carolina. Her brows furrow because she hates it when I call her by her professional title.
