Alberto grumbled something under his breath but didn’t elaborate.
Hands stuffed in his front jeans pockets, Patricio strode from the lounge into the kitchen area. Mottled black-and-light-brown ceramic countertops flanked a stainless steel sink on the left with a microwave / convection oven and a two-burner stove top on the right. If memory served her correctly, somewhere behind the mix of gleaming wooden and brushed metal cabinet doors hid a refrigerator/freezer for the specially prepared meals he was known to order in. If she opened another, she should find the temperature-controlled wine rack. Additions to his home away from home that had garnered praise from the journalist writing the People en Español article.
Most stars traveled back to their residences in between weekend shows, while their band and crew stayed in hotels at the next city. Patricio was known to camp out on his bus. Bueno, “camp” being a relative word. This place was a far cry from roughing it.
But forget convection ovens and wine racks. What Cat reeeeeeally wanted to see lay beyond a closed pocket door in the glistening wood walls that separated the kitchen space from the private suite that took up the entire back half.
She wasn’t interested in testing the comfort of the queen-size bed that slid out for use. Por favor, she had no plans of becoming one of Patricio’s groupies.
Nor did she care about the fancy treadmill exercise station that helped him maintain the gorgeous physique his tailor-made leather charro clung to onstage.
Uh-uh. Her music-loving heart raced at the chance to play around with the small recording studio he had installed, complete with a mixing station, multiple monitors, and surround sound. Supposedly Patricio had written many of the songs for his last two albums in his mobile studio while on the road.
That was exactly what they needed to be doing now. Together.
“I’d love to hear what you’ve come up with,” she said.
“I’m still tossing around ideas. Thinking.”
“Thinking is good.” She sat down on one of the bench seats flanking the table. “Sharing those thoughts with your cowriter is even better.”
“I’d invite you to make yourself at home, but . . .” Patricio frowned. “You already are.”
“Gracias for the warm welcome.” Cat batted her eyelashes with a saccharine-sweet smile for Patricio, then swiveled to offer Alberto an apology. “Perdóname for the minor kerfuffle. I hope your backside’s not too sore.”
“¡Qué—Oh, no, estoy bien!” Alberto reached behind to rub his butt, then winced and shifted to tuck in his button-down shirt with bashful motions.
Patricio chuckled at the older man’s obvious embarrassment. “I can’t remember the last time someone’s gotten the better of you, viejo. You’re losing your touch.”
Alberto answered with a humph as he finger-combed his thinning salt-and-pepper hair into place.
“Or maybe I’m just that good at not taking no for an answer,” Cat challenged.
“One of your many talents.” That sarcastic smirk Patricio had perfected tilted a corner of his mouth.
“More proof of how lucky you are to team up with me. Speaking of which, George asked for a progress update when he called earlier to see how I was settling in,” Cat shared.
“He did?”
“Mm-hmm. Apparently he didn’t think he was getting a straight answer from you. Funny, I feel the same way.” Elbows planted on the table, she steepled her hands under her chin and stared up at Patricio, daring him to try and make up another excuse.
The infuriating man leaned against the sink behind him, hands loosely gripping the countertop edge, black boots crossed at the ankles as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A state of mind she didn’t have the luxury of enjoying. This gig could make or break her career. He knew that and yet . . .
The sound of a wind chime tinkled from Alberto’s pocket. He pulled out his phone, his expression brightening when he read the caller’s name. A huge grin plumped his round cheeks.
“It’s Magdalena. My wife,” he added, jiggling his phone at Cat. “I’ll take this outside so you two can talk. Patricio, remember what we discussed, okay?”
“Nag, nag, nag,” the singer bemoaned. He followed Alberto to the top of the steps, shooing his assistant with a flick of his wrist. “Go on, get out of here. Send Magda my love and ask her to please give you a hard time for giving me a hard time.”
“Never!” Alberto called when he stepped onto the parking lot asphalt.
“Oye, you know she will. I’m her favorite!”
Despite her annoyance with Patricio, Cat grinned at the men’s banter, more evidence of their close relationship—more tío and nephew than assistant and superstar.
The older man’s “hola, mi amor” greeting to his beloved was cut off when Patricio closed the bus door.
The sounds of the traffic passing by on the busy street alongside the hotel’s back parking lot disappeared, leaving Cat and Patricio in a muted silence. He strolled back to the kitchen, pushing up the long sleeves of his black Henley again. The muscles in his forearms rippled, the dusting of dark hair against his bronze skin reminding her of his strength, the surprising sense of security she had felt when he’d grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling earlier.
She forced herself to look away and stop her mind’s unwelcome meandering. On the muted TV behind him as he walked by, a player on the Mexico team sank the soccer ball into their opponent’s net. The men dogpiled on top of each other in celebration—the same tackle-hug her younger sisters had shared on the sala floor at home, the morning they’d found out Mariachi Las Nubes had moved on to the second round of the competition.
They had worked so damn hard to prove themselves worthy. To do their part in chipping away at the annoying glass ceiling that often kept female mariachis offstage or relegated to playing only backup. She owed it to them, to the students in her all-girls mariachi class at the community center, to herself, to not let Patricio and whatever megastar moodiness he had going on stop her from giving this opportunity with Padua Records her best shot.
“Would you like something to drink?” Patricio tugged open a long cabinet door to reveal the fridge.
“Water’s fine. Thanks,” Cat answered.
“With bubbles or without? Flavored? Plain?”
She laughed. Of course his fridge contained bottled-water options. Probably lined up in neat rows alongside the gourmet meals for his 80/20 diet plan. Meanwhile, over on the much smaller, much less tricked-out bus for the peons, she’d been happy to find the dorm-size fridge stocked with spring water and Gatorade the first night. The box of microwave popcorn and bag of M&M’s stashed in another cabinet had provided her with suitable comfort food after the tearful goodbye with her familia.
“Without, please,” she answered. “I save the bubbles for my celebratory drinks, preferably in a champagne flute.”
“Duly noted. For when you win your Grammy.”
“Which won’t happen unless we get to work.”
Patricio grunted at her needling. Striding toward her, he broke the seal on a bottle of water, then handed it to her as he slid into the other side of the booth. His feet tangled with hers under the table, and she started at the intimacy of his ankle sliding along her lower calf.