Page 126 of LA King

“Yeah, I know the area. It’s called Skid Row for a reason, and I’m sure Mr. Montoya would not want you going there.”

To hell with what Mr. Montoya wants. “You work for me now, don’t you? That’s where I’d like to go. And what Mr. Montoya doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“You want me to lie to the boss?”

Absolutely. Although I don’t want Hugo to get into trouble. “No, of course not. If he asks you, feel free to tell him the truth. But he probably won’t ask. That’s all I’m saying.”

He grimaces.

“Please, Hugo. If the place looks unsafe, then we won’t go in.”

“You’re gonna get me fired, Alana.” Chuckling, he shakes his head. But then he pulls the car out of its space, and I pray he’s taking me where I want to go.

It’s almost six by the time I get home. The women and children’s shelter was exactly what I was looking for, and they’re in desperate need of a new fundraising coordinator.

I spent most of the afternoon with Kristen O’Malley, the woman who set up the shelter eighteen years ago after she fled her own abusive marriage and found support from a similar organization. Once she’d gotten back on her feet, she wanted to give something back too, and the Maggie O’Malley Center was born. Kristen named it after her mother, who passed while the center was being established.

There’s no doubt Kristen works tirelessly to help all the women and children who come through their doors, but it’s also apparent that she’s desperately short-staffed and that the center’s limited funds are dwindling. Not to mention the lease on their building is up for renewal, and the landlord doesn’t seem to be a very charitable person at all.

When I offered to help fundraise, she accepted gratefully, but it was only when I told her my name that she really paid attention.

She didn’t recognize me as Alana Montoya, but as Alana Carmichael. She follows politics, unsurprising given her career, and remembered my work on my father’s last campaign. That she knows me as someone other than Alejandro’s wife gave me a sense of pride I haven’t felt in a good while.

For a moment, I felt like myself again. I promised I’d do everything I could to help, and she gave me the warmest hug I’ve had in months.

I can’t wipe the grin off my face as I walk through the house to the kitchen where Magda is busy near the stove.

She briskly wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh, Mrs. Montoya, I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Magda, would you please call me Alana?” I ask her for what must be the hundredth time since I first walked into this house. “Mrs. Montoya makes me feel really old.”

She winces slightly but nods. “Alana,” she says, and it sounds like the word had to force its way out.

Still, I appreciate the effort. “Thank you.”

She clears her throat. “Mr. Montoya will be home for dinner⁠—”

“He will?” Interrupting is impolite of me, but he hasn’t been home for dinner once since we got married.

“Yes.” She nods eagerly. “So what shall I cook? What is your favorite dish?”

I’m busy thinking about how much of an impact this will have on my evening. Not that my evening consists of much more than reading or watching Housewives of Beverly Hills, which is surprisingly addictive. “Whatever he likes is fine by me.”

She shakes her head and huffs. “But he has instructed me to cook your favorite meal. So?”

The sight of him chowing down on a greasy burger almost makes me laugh. “I don’t think he’ll appreciate my tastes.”

She waves her hands in front of her, and her voice raises an octave. “That may be, but those are my orders.”

I chew on my bottom lip and think. I suppose I could pretend that my favorite dish is something exotic and cultured. But no. He can take me how I come or not at all. “Okay then. My favorite meal is a bacon cheeseburger and fries.”

Magda blinks at me. She’s an incredible cook, and her family’s paella recipe is a closely guarded secret that her mama wouldn’t even confess to the priest, Magda told me. She’s probably never made bacon cheeseburgers before in her life.

“I can cook them if you’d like. I like cooking.”

“No.” She glares at me like I’ve insulted her entire family. “There is no dish that Magda Hernandez cannot cook.” She pats her chest with pride. “You go and get cleaned up for dinner. It will be ready at eight.”

“If you’re sure?”