Law #1: Never Bet on Love: A Sweet Billionaire Love Story (Laws of Love) Agnes Canestri (best books to read in your 20s .txt) 📖

Not so much. I have a hard time picturing myself as a giant grappling anchor thrown into the sea. And an even harder time believing anyone would be safe attaching her boat to me during even the mildest tempest. I can’t swim, for crying out loud.

But that’s not what Abuelita meant.

She wants me to help her take care of my sister and my other brother. Then, once Alejandro is released, I’ll need to give him a hand settling in and getting back on his feet. Especially since it’s more my fault than his that he ended up behind bars. If I hadn’t moved to Silver Hills I could have kept him away from Fernando’s gang…

Hurriedly, I push the painful memories of my ex away to the darkest corner of my mind. Once I’m positive the skeleton of my past won’t tumble out, I reach for the ignition and switch off our beat-up car.

I jump out and inhale the brisk air till both of my lungs are filled to capacity. Besides the obvious smell of fried meat and gasoline fumes, there is a nice, woody perfume wafting around with a hint of sweetness. I love spring. It’s probably my favorite season. It’s full of the promises of a new beginning and the hope that the second time around things will turn out better.

Of course, in my life they rarely do.

I glance at our bar’s flashing neon logo and let out the breath I’ve been holding.

If only I had enough money to start that restructuring project on our garage already. Paying off Alejandro’s lawyer ate up all my savings. Or if I could have found a temporary teaching job…but options in our town are limited. Especially if I want to stick to what I know. And that’s dancing.

I slam the car door and the glass trembles slightly.

Okay, I clearly need to stop letting out my frustration on objects around me. It’s better to put on my big girl pants and ignore all the shoulda-woulda-coulda nonesense that’s currently buzzing around in my mind, making me feel like I’ve stuck my head into a hive. If I work hard, my plan will eventually become reality. I just need to believe it, and it’ll all work out.

I grab my bag from the trunk and saunter toward the staff entrance.

As I pass the third row of parking, I notice from the corner of my eye two vehicles that don’t fit the usual picture. One is an orange Lamborghini just like my younger brother Juan’s toy that he got from Santa. That I almost broke my neck stepping on this morning after he left it scattered in the living room. The second car is a somber-looking Bentley. Though its grey color is less flashy, it’s every bit as imposing as the other one.

These rides are indeed a surprising sight in our shabby parking. And a pretty unwelcome one for me. Alfonso might think that the best thing that could happen to the Desert Rose is to get an upgrade of clientele, but I disagree. Rich men aren’t more respectful or better behaved than the regular truck drivers. They might go about their dubious intentions concerning us dancers in a more subtle—not, say, sneaky—way, but they still want the same as their poorer counterparts. Lucky that, at least in this department, our boss has got our backs. He never forces us to meet guests privately unless we agree to do so.

My gaze drifts along the Bentley’s shiny gloss.

Why is the upper crust suddenly coming into our crummy Latino bar?

Not that the Desert Rose is a dump. It’s not, even if I sometimes say it is, but it’s definitely not a fancy country club. It serves greasy food and decent enough drinks—at least ever since Alfonso managed to hire Pablo.

None of this matters much to our guests, anyway. The majority come here to ogle us dancers. Which might be gratifying to my colleagues, but not to me. My goal wasn’t to end up as a bar dancer. I amassed a huge debt, which I’m still paying off, to attend a decent dancing academy. But as the sole breadwinner of our family, I don’t really have a choice. The salary Alfonso offers us is stellar compared to any other place in a thirty-mile radius.

Of course, the money I earn is probably peanuts to the owners of these cars…

A loud wave of laughter reaches my ear from the bar, and I peek at my watch.

¡Ay, caramba, it’s late! If I don’t get going, I’ll be fired. That’d put an end to my paychecks.

I sprint to the back of the building, then cross the dark corridor to our changing room. The faint smell of cigarettes and beer seeping in from the bar is comfortingly familiar. My heels click on the ceramic tiles and the rhythmical sound elevates my pulse slightly. Despite the fact that being the lead dancer in a bar isn’t my utmost aspiration, the anticipation before a performance is still a feeling I cherish. A weak smile is already on my lips as I press open the door to our changing room.

A woman assaults me, and I stumble under her weight as she hugs me tightly. “Eva, love, you’re here. Look, we’ve got new costumes,” Daphne squeals into my ear, making me go half-deaf.

“Let her breathe, Daph,” calls Judy, our belly dancer and my best gal from the troupe.

Daphne purses her lips but releases me.

“Thanks, Judy.” I flash a smile at my friend and she grins back. Her eyes, enhanced by a thick layer of eyeliner, pull into two dark lines.

“So are these the magnificent new clothes?” I ask, eyeing Daphne’s form-fitting flamenco attire.

Judy points at her vibrant lilac skirt with its countless coins. “Here is mine. Your new things are on your chair.”

Wow, if these are the new ones, I might just stick to my old dress.

I stop the words before they reach my lips. After all, Judy does look good in her new costume. Slightly flamboyant but not