Page 35 of Face Off With Fate

“Why had I not thought of that before? Itze, you’re a genius.”

Her eyes widened as she turned. “What did I say? I didn’t think I was that help⁠—”

“You. You can be his fake girlfriend.” The plans were already whirling in my brain.

“No.” She held her hands in front of her mandil, waving them like she was warding me off. The bright embroidered florals highlighted how her tanned skin had paled at the suggestion.

“Oh, come on,” I pleaded.

She flicked the blender on, drowning the small space with the groaning whir of a decade-old machine attempting to liquify the roasted solids. I rolled my eyes at the attempt to get me to drop it and move on. Fat chance in hell I’d do that.

I waited her out with my arms crossed and a brow flicked up. She wouldn’t risk over-blending the salsa.

“You know it’s fake,” I said the moment the noise cut out. “And I’m orchestrating the whole thing.”

She sent a glare my way, moving the small plate off the top of the blender—the top lost years ago—to taste the contents. “Otro chile.”

I grabbed another from the comal, heat searing into my fingertips as I dropped it into the burnt-red mixture.

The whine resumed. I smirked at how she avoided looking at me, eyes locked in front of her. Like if she pretended I wasn’t there, I might disappear—or at least change the subject. I was too stubborn for that. Had she forgotten that her mom called me terca?

A twinge of sadness hit my chest.

I’d been so angry and hurt when I left for Dallas that I hadn’t just cut my family off…I’d cut everyone from my life off.

Hell, even Ari. But she’d shoved her way back in whether I wanted it or not.

Itzel was softer than that, more caring of people’s wishes. Even if they hurt her.

“Did I mention this is easy money?”

She flicked her eyes my way.

I fought off a smirk, not wanting to lose her. We may not have shared blood, but we shared the same competitive drive. If she sensed she was losing the battle of wills, she’d throw on the brakes so fast.

I’d witnessed her stubbornness in action with admitting to the crush she’d had on the same man since high school.

Itzel gnawed on the inner corner of her lip. “I already have a job.” She pointed to the stove. “Stir the frijoles y fíjate si necesitan más sal.”

I clucked my tongue. “Ay, no me digas, ‘I have a job.’ We both know your customer care position doesn’t pay what you deserve. And besides, you get to keep it. You keep your whole life the same except for having un novio,” I said, gathering some of the liquid to taste.

“Dammit,” I yelled, waving my hand around.

“Tonta.” Itzel shook her head. “You need to blow on it before you put it in your palm.”

“I didn’t use to.” I licked the droplet off my burnt hand and added a hefty dose of salt to the pot. My ancestors would be pissed.

“When was the last time you even made frijoles from scratch? Ari told me how you used the microwave for tortillas.”

“Esta pendeja, that was one time, and I only did it because I was drunk and didn’t want to burn down the apartment for a quesadilla.”

I blew on the next tasting.

Itzel shrugged and gave a cocky smile, pouring the freshly made salsa into a container. I let a comfortable silence fall over us, knowing she needed time to consider.

Whatever the opposite of impulsive was, that was Itzel.

“How much does it pay?” she asked, so quietly I almost missed it.