The strains of a country music song interrupted the calming beach atmosphere, intensifying to club level when a yellow Jeep screeched to a stop in a parking spot close by. Two guys, one as short and stocky as the other was tall and gangly, both wearing tropical board shorts and faded tees, hopped out. Two girls in bikini tops and booty shorts followed. Arms laden with towels, beach chairs, and a cooler, they made their way toward the shore, kicking up sand with their flip-flops, voices raised with their fun.
Alejandro’s gaze tracked the group’s path until they disappeared around the other side of the pavilion, all the while absently rubbing his left knee above the highest fixator ring. He had to be feeling some level of discomfort after their long morning but was probably too proud to say so. When he noticed her eyeing his motion, he stopped and tugged down the hems of his faded black cargo shorts.
“Here they come.” He separated his crutches, grasping one in each hand; then he pushed up on his right foot.
Across the way, Sara and Brandon strolled out of the restaurant’s main entrance into the covered outdoor seating area.
“He’s a decent guy.” Alejandro motioned toward Brandon, who waited for Sara to precede him through the gate in the low, brightly painted wooden fence surrounding the popular eatery. The two of them stopped, Sara leaning closer as Brandon lifted his cell phone for them to look at something on the screen.
“Seems like it,” Anamaría said.
“Probably a good idea that the two of you paired up.”
“Oh, we’re not pairing pairing up. Not like that, anyway.” Flustered by the wrong direction Alejandro was heading, she straightened, waving off whatever he might be implying. “We’re professional acquaintances. Maybe moving into friend territory. That’s all.”
“You never know,” Alejandro pressed.
“Nuh-huh, it’s not happening.” Anamaría shook her head emphatically. “I’m not messing things up with AllFit by trying to hook up with someone. This is business, and Brandon seems like he could be a good friend, nothing more.”
“Look, all I’m saying is”—Alejandro gave a lazy one-shoulder shrug, as if his version of Cuban mami matchmaking wasn’t weirding her out—“two people with common careers, working long hours closely together. It’s been known to happen.”
“Is that how you and your wife connected?” The question burned her tongue as she voiced it.
“Morgan?” Alejandro’s wide eyes told of his surprise at Anamaría’s blunt inquiry. That made two of them.
Worse, hearing him say the other woman’s name hurt far more than it still should. Over the years, similar questions about him and Morgan Ritter, the statuesque model he had married shortly after breaking up with Anamaría, had clamored in her head. Begging for answers. Anamaría had remained in the dark, refusing to ask them. Refusing to even Google the woman.
“Uh, yes. Morgan and I met on a shoot. In Italy. Right after . . . well, a few months after you and I . . . after we ended.” He spoke haltingly, as if fumbling for the right words. But his intense gaze never wavered from hers. “The relationship snowballed. Then, it, uh . . . as I’m guessing you already know . . . it melted fairly quickly.”
A troubled expression stamped his face over the demise of his marriage. Remorse for allowing her jealousy to infect the positive experience they had shared together flared in Anamaría’s chest. At the same time, both her heart and mind still struggled to make sense of how he could have forgotten about her and moved on so quickly.
“I guess I never understood how—were you—” She broke off, her eyes searching his, desperate for answers that would assuage her own anguish. The questions she had always wanted to ask remained stuck in her throat. Except for the one she hoped was true but whose confirmation would hurt the most.
“Were you happy with her? At least for a time?”
Alejandro heaved a sigh, his gaze moving to squint out at the open water behind her. A strange mix of regret and acceptance settled in his dark eyes. “Morgan wasn’t the problem in our marriage. We both acted rashly, jumping into something way too soon. But, ultimately, the problem was me.”
His answer gave rise to more questions. With Brandon and Sara making their way over, now wasn’t the time to ask them.
“You’ve got something great going here,” Alejandro said. “I’m happy for you, Princesa. You deserve it.”
“Ay!” She scuffed at the sand near his left crutch, purposefully missing to avoid knocking it out from under him. “No one calls me that anymore unless they want some trouble!”
A shadow of his cocky grin answered her playful threat. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be. I can take you. Especially now.”
He laughed at her, the rich sound drawing the attention of the two women nearby.
Anamaría didn’t join in, though. She was too busy grappling with his cryptic revelation about his marriage and the turbulent emotions their conversation had churned up inside her.
“You two ready to grab lunch?” Brandon asked as he and Sara reached them.
Sara hooked an arm with one of Anamaría’s. “After all this hard work, even I’m famished.”
Anamaría looked at Sara, a silent Are you okay? passing between them. In recovery with an eating disorder she had privately struggled with since high school, Sara rarely brought up her lack of interest in food. She hugged Anamaría’s arm tighter and gave her a reassuring nod.
“Any interest in Italian food at Salute?” Alejandro asked, adjusting his crutches under his armpits.
Anamaría grabbed his backpack for him, then the group began the trek back to their vehicles.
“Actually, a little bird named Sara told me that your parents own the best Cuban restaurant on the island.” Brandon gave his signature head toss, shifting his bangs out of his eyes as they walked through the sand. “I haven’t had decent Cuban food in ages. How ’bout we grab a bite there to celebrate a successful shoot?”
No one else probably saw it, but Anamaría didn’t miss Alejandro’s full-body wince. The absolute last place he’d go to celebrate was his dad’s restaurant. According to Enrique, Ale hadn’t even stepped foot in the place since his return.
Sara, who knew the condensed version of the Mirandas’ familia saga, slid a nervous glance at Alejandro, then Anamaría, before suggesting, “Are you sure you don’t want seafood? Fresh from the ocean?”
“If that’s what you prefer, I don’t mind,” Brandon answered, confirming his easygoing personality.
They reached the sidewalk that wove around Higgs Beach, and Alejandro stopped in front of the restaurant’s low fence to shake the sand off the rubber grippers on the bottoms of his crutches.
“Actually, you know how interested my mom is in your Instagram presence.” He cut a quick glance at Anamaría, then back at his crutches as he stomped them on the walkway one last time. “Our moms are so nosy, I’m sure mine already knows all about Brandon and would love to meet him. I’m betting she’d love to hear what you two have planned together, don’t you think?”
Sara laughed at his reasoning and Brandon chimed in with his approval.