He arched a brow in that pensive smolder captured in an ad for a fancy men’s cologne that, thanks to him, flew off the shelves as if it were bottles of water. She may or may not have snagged a few samplers at the mall when Patricio’s first ad released a few years ago. Might have even spritzed it on a pillow a time or two. A fangirl move she would take to her grave.
Patricio motioned at someone behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder, surprised to find Luciano hanging out near the Las Nubes dressing room door. Odd that he would still be here, seeing as how most of Galán’s team was set up in a different area.
Luciano tipped his head in greeting.
“Be careful what you wish for, Catalina,” Patricio told her. “Like I’ve said before, life in the limelight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
A promise or a warning . . . she wasn’t sure which he intended as he strode away, his bandmate at his side.
No matter. Patricio’s words didn’t intimidate her. Like that cheesy positivity mantra scrawled on a poster in her therapist’s waiting room, she was shooting for the moon. If she missed, at least she’d land among the stars.
Undeterred, Cat hurried back to the dressing room. Inside she found her sisters gathered in their holding-hands circle waiting for her so they could say their preconcert prayer. Love for them swelled in her chest, tinged with a trickle of regret that this would be her last time playing with them for a while. But she would return. And she would rejoin Mariachi Las Nubes. Because she knew without a doubt that if she missed that moon she was shooting for, the stars she’d land among would be her familia.
And as long as she kept her head in the game with Galán, if she focused on business and didn’t get sidetracked by fickle pleasure, her odds of a moon landing with him increased exponentially.
Chapter Six
Cheers and whistles and gritos filled the AT&T Center as Patricio patted the sweat off his face with a black hand towel. Midway through his concert and the audience still hummed with an excited, expectant energy.
For years he had fed off their adrenaline, like a beggar starving for nourishment. Over time, though, he had slowly come to understand that what the mass of fans offered was fleeting. It couldn’t nourish a wounded soul. When the music quieted and the lights shut off and the seats emptied, he was left alone. Wanting. Craving a deeper connection he’d yet to experience.
It was a harsh reality that his father’s rebukes, both private and in the press, continuously confirmed.
Always a consummate professional, though, Patricio squinted under the bright stage lights and grinned out at the crowd. He was El Príncipe, after all, giving the fans what they wanted. Following in the footsteps of El Rey. Yet never surpassing him.
“¡Muchísimas gracias!” he cried into the mic. “Like I said earlier, it’s always a pleasure being back in San Antonio.”
More celebratory gritos pierced the air with special cries from the locals.
Removing his mariachi sombrero, he held it against his chest and bowed slightly. “Agradezco mucho the warm hospitality during my extended stay here. And I also appreciate the incredible support for the Battle of the Mariachi Bands and Nuestros Niños. We raised an incredible amount of money for the Our Kids organization thanks to many of you here tonight.”
He paused for the expected audience reaction, murmuring an “I love you, too” into the mic in answer to a smattering of “Te quiero, Patricio” cries. His wink into one of the moving video cameras set off a ripple of sighs and swoons, reactions he never took for granted, though he recognized that the adulation was mostly for the performer they adored. Not the real Patricio Galán.
There were parts of him his fans didn’t—couldn’t—know. Secret pieces he kept purposefully private. Unwilling to risk having his insecurities plastered all over the press or, worse, going viral on social media, he protected himself with the necessary game of masquerade.
“Speaking of the Battle, how about Mariachi Las Nubes and their powerhouse performance earlier this evening?” Hands raised high, he clapped along with the cheers. “Talented mujeres showing us how tradición and change can lead to beautiful artistry and music. Denme un grito for all the amazing mujeres in the house tonight!”
Cupping a hand behind an ear, he encouraged the Mexican cries of joy he had just called for. Had he been among the crowd, he would have joined in their appreciation, having been equally as awed by the Las Nubes performance.
After talking to Catalina, he should have gone back to his own dressing room. Normally he sequestered himself away from others before a show to avoid distractions. He’d go through his vocal warm-ups, run the full show in his head. Allow his adrenaline free rein, ramping himself up before he harnessed it, his need to give his best for the fans fighting against the ingrained habit of giving his father what the old man wanted—a talented son who never outshone him.
But a strange compulsion Patricio couldn’t resist had driven him to forgo his usual preperformance ritual. Instead, disguised in a black hoodie and dark sunglasses, he’d stood in the shadows of the stage wings watching Las Nubes. Impressed by all the sisters. Enthralled by one in particular.
“Speaking of amazing women,” he told the crowd, “I’d like to introduce one who’s agreed to join me onstage for a few special numbers. A skilled singer-songwriter, one of Padua Records’ newest talents, who, according to her, plans to keep me on my toes during our tour!” He winked at the crowd. “We’ll see about that, ¿verdad?”
Catcalls and laughter rose from the audience. He chuckled, their anticipation heightening his own. Funny, Catalina wasn’t even out here with him yet, and already the exhilaration of performing live that had eluded him lately slowly stretched and awakened from its long hibernation.
He lifted an arm and extended it toward stage right as rehearsed. “Por favor, give it up for Catalina Capuleta.”
Red lips curved in her beguiling grin, delicate brows raised in that challenging stare she was wont to throw at him when he—rightfully, mind you—pushed her during rehearsal, Cat sauntered onstage. Her black charro skirt swished across the ankles of her heeled boots. The vines of red roses trailing down the skirt’s side seams under the shiny gala swayed with the shake of her hips, and his fingers twitched with the urge to trace the embroidered vines and the curves beneath them.
Confidence straightened her shoulders and spine as she approached the microphone stand next to his. If Catalina was nervous about their set, there was no sign of it. In fact, she looked proud and poised and sexy as hell. Watching her draw near set his body on fire in a five-alarm way he knew could only spell disaster if he didn’t find a way to douse the flames.
Instead of keeping a cautionary distance when she reached him, Patricio leaned toward her to kiss her cheek, a traditional greeting in their Latinx comunidad. A gesture he and Catalina had avoided by a silent, if purposeful, agreement over the past week.
Her eyes widened, but she recovered quickly, closing the distance between them and angling her face to accept his kiss.
Her skin was warm and soft against his lips. She smelled like face powder mixed with something musky and rich that quickened his pulse. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers curling around the lapel of his charro jacket. Instinctively he swung his sombrero behind her, his arm circling her waist in a hug that felt natural but was over far too soon to sufficiently satisfy his desire to touch her, hold her. Have her.