A Game With No Rules
Mom walked inside the shop by lunchtime from meeting with Romina Rodríguez, pitching her designs for her daughter’s wedding next month.
“How did it go?” I asked, kissing her on the cheek.
“I got the deal,” she informed me, taking her suit jacket off while tying her loose brown curls up with the hair tie around her wrist.
“Oh, congrats, mom. But I knew you’d nail it.” I might be biased, but mom makes the best cake in the world. Okay, I’m extremely biased.
I poured her a glass of orange juice from the fridge. She took a sip from it, looking at me as if she remembered something. “You got the truck fixed already? How much did it cost?”
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