Her last words were a husky whisper that had him ducking his head to hear her. The move brought her lips excruciatingly close to his. Desire swirled through him, pushing him to taste her sweetness. He refused to cross the line with her.
“In here”—her fingers patted his chest over his heart, and he was certain she had to feel its pace increase—“you’re a softie. That’s how you manage to take such beautifully moving pictures. No matter where you go, who you meet, or what you explore, you have a knack for capturing emotion in the amazing situations. Sharing it with those of us who admire your work.”
No doubt about it, he knew he was a master behind his camera. His issues lay in an inability . . . more like an unwillingness . . . to connect with others once he set his Canon aside. Except for her. Yet even that small pleasure was destined to be short-lived because he would leave and she would stay.
“The thing is,” she went on, moving infinitesimally closer until only a small space separated them. Her voice tipped lower still, as if she shared a secret for his ears alone. “Sometimes, you might need to peek out from behind your camera. Try connecting with those who are important to you. Try showing them why you see the world the way you do. You have a gift, Ale; don’t use it as a buffer. Use it to unite, the way your stunning photographs do.”
Her intuition slayed him. What she suggested sounded so easy. But when it came to his father, easy had never been a word that described their relationship.
“I don’t—It’s not . . .” He stumbled to a stop, uncertain exactly how to answer without potentially disappointing her. Something he definitely didn’t want to do.
Her tempting mouth spread in a grin; then she surprised him again by cupping his cheek and stretching tall to press her lips against his in a kiss that was chaste and delicious but over before he had time to fully appreciate it. She winked impishly. “I think I’ve blown you away with my wisdom.”
Rather than admit the truth in her claim, he took the easier route and hid behind her humor. “Actually, I’m relieved the truth has finally come out. You are a big fan of my work.”
“Are you kidding me?” she cried, her forehead falling against his chest.
His heart swelled with affection, and he cupped the back of her head, thrilled to have her in his arms again. He tipped his head to press a kiss to her crown, but she smacked his chest with an open palm, none too gently, and pushed away from him.
“Un . . . believable!” she complained with an exasperated grimace. “After my thought-provoking advice, that’s what you’re going to focus on? ¡Ay, Dios, por favor, ayúdame! Men and their egos!”
Muttering another prayer for God’s help under her breath, she dragged his crutches from the back seat, then held them out for him.
“I was kidding,” he defended himself, covering her hands with his on the crutches. He tugged her closer, relieved when she willingly came. “I heard what you said, and I will admit that I’d like to try. But you know how hard it is with him.”
She nodded. He released her to tuck the crutches under his armpits, and they walked in companionable silence toward the restaurant’s back entrance. Anamaría grabbed the metal handle, pausing before she tugged it open.
“You sure you’re okay going inside?”
Not really. He nodded anyway.
She eyed him warily. “I mean, when I said reach out to your papi, I didn’t necessarily mean right this second.”
“The longer I put it off, the more awkward it becomes. Besides, he likes you better. If we’re together, maybe he’ll at least let me finish my meal before he throws me out.”
She smiled at his lame joke, but concern for him blanketed her beautiful face. Her reaction confirmed his decision to come inside with her. Despite the potential parental blowup.
“That is not going to happen,” she promised.
“We shall see. Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Yes, showing up at Miranda’s might invite the face-off with his father he’d been dreading. But this fragile new relationship he and Anamaría were forging, even with its faint undercurrent of unchecked need slowly simmering, deserved his attempt to face his dad, even knowing the man would never accept him. Never forgive him. But Anamaría might. That alone was worth it.
Chapter 13
Between the numerous hello hugs for her and welcome home hugs for him, along with the “¿Qué te pasó?” inquiries from a few of the old regulars that had Alejandro sharing his dive off the waterfall saga, Anamaría figured they’d eventually meet up with Sara and Brandon by dinnertime.
She smiled politely at Señora Gómez, a member of her mami and Señora Miranda’s prayer group at St. Mary’s, while Alejandro patiently thanked the older woman—again—for her continuing prayers. Concern pruned Señora Gómez’s wrinkly face even more as she gently reprimanded him for causing his mami and abuela such worry.
As they stood practically on top of each other in the tiny space between the packed tables, Alejandro nudged Anamaría with his elbow. He ducked his head to slide her a bug-eyed, help-me stare, but she knew better than to cut off the older woman when she was mid-lecture.
“Papito, you need to visit your familia more often,” Señora Gómez scolded, grasping one of Alejandro’s hands between hers, the deep brown sunspots freckling her skin evidence of her years and time in the island sun. “We viejitas are not getting any younger.”
“Who’s a viejita?” he teased, drawing back slightly as if he were assessing her. “When I look at you, I don’t see an old woman, I see one in her prime. A picture titled Young Cubanita.” Fingers crooked, he swiped a hand through the air with a flourish, marking the label under the imaginary photograph.
The older woman’s cackle rang out as she patted her tightly slicked-back hair and the little gray moño high on the back of her head. “Always a smooth talker, this one, ha, nena? No wonder he stole your heart again.”
Anamaría winced. Alejandro’s teasing grin faltered but rallied.
Before either one could clarify that they were not back together, the swinging door leading in and out of the kitchen pushed open. Ernesto strode out, arms swinging like a man on a pissed-off mission, based on his dark scowl. A black apron with the Miranda’s name embroidered across the chest hung from his neck, the waist strings untied.
He jerked to a jaw-dropping stop when he spotted Alejandro.
The two brothers stared at each other in silence until the kitchen door pushed open behind Ernesto. Anamaría held her breath, anticipating the eruption if Victor Miranda joined them next.
Instead, Iona, the middle-aged single mom who’d been part of the Miranda’s familia for decades, came barreling out, a tray laden with multiple plates balanced in her slender arms.
“Salte del medio,” she grumbled.
Ernesto, visibly shell-shocked by his brother’s presence here, dumbly stepped out of the way as she had asked.
The door swung in, then out, bumping into Ernesto’s butt. The tap snapped Alejandro’s younger brother out of his stupor. His quizzical glance slid from Alejandro to Anamaría, then back again.