From the age of ten, when she had first arrived at Casa Capuleta, Cat had been a lucky recipient of unconditional love and support from Arturo Capuleta. Papo would never turn his back on her or any of her sisters.
Her asshole birth father? That was another story. The cabrón had willingly done so, repeatedly. Hell, his name wasn’t even on her birth certificate. Gracias a Dios for small favors, because that one removed a tie to the man she hoped to never see again.
But how to cope with a slap in the face from the man the entire mariachi world maintained on a pedestal? Worse, they expected you to do the same.
That was a raw deal.
Patricio may not have made a statement in the press, but this list—the themes of familia, roots, betrayal, and history—spoke volumes.
“Bueno, you’re right and you’re wrong,” she told him.
He arched a brow in his signature sardonic glare. “I am rarely wrong, especially when it comes to my music. But I’ll bite. Explain yourself.”
“You’re right, there’s not much on your list.”
His nostrils flared and she caught the tightening of his jaw muscles.
Ooh, she’d hit a nerve. Maybe someone else on this bus wasn’t as good with criticism, constructive or otherwise, as he advised others to be. Her, specifically.
Interesting.
“You’re also unequivocally wrong,” she pushed. “I say, there’s plenty to work with here. It’s emotional, raw. Universal. Actually, it’s really good.”
She nudged the notebook toward him. He eyed it for several weighty seconds, his expression grim. Then he nodded slowly, and the tautness in his broad shoulders eased. The worry line between his brows relaxed. His nod grew more pronounced, confident. That smug grin of his made its reappearance, and she realized with a jolt that she needed it to. Needed his annoying conceit because it made her raise her hackles.
Arrogant megastar? Him, she could easily handle.
Broody son wounded by his parent’s disdain? That guy hit her heart in a way that could ultimately prove detrimental.
“Really good, huh?” Satisfaction danced around the edges of his question as he ran a finger along the notebook’s leather edge.
“Sure. But I can make it better.” She gave a little head toss that sent her loose hair swaying around her shoulders.
He laughed. A rich, hearty sound that wrapped around her with the warmth of her favorite comfy sweatshirt. Scooping up the pen, he clicked it open. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter Eight
Patricio gazed out at the sea of middle schoolers filling the wooden bleachers at the Nuestros Niños Club in Irving, Texas, Wednesday afternoon. Standing beside him at the gymnasium’s center court, Catalina smiled warmly at the young girl who had shyly posed a question from her seat in the second row.
“Was I nervous getting up on that huge stage in front of thousands of fans at the AT&T Center for my first concert?” Catalina repeated, ensuring the rest of the kids heard the question. “Hmm, would you like to take a guess?”
The young girl and several others around her nodded, eyes wide with awe.
“Sí, I won’t lie, I definitely was.” Tucking her hair behind her ear, Catalina took a few steps to her right. The students tracked her path, drawn by her story. She spoke with passion but in a friendly, approachable way the kids seemed to relate to. Even Patricio found himself mesmerized by her.
Watching her effortlessly connect with the kids, he relaxed for the first time since he’d spotted the group of photographers pulling up behind his rental car in the parking lot. This was supposed to have been a private meet and greet for the club. No live press asking probing personal questions. But once they had arrived, barring the reporters and their crew from entering would have drawn unwanted negative attention.
“And I’ll be nervous tomorrow night when we hit the stage at the Pavilion, here in Irving,” Catalina continued. “Pero before every performance or, really, any time I’m faced with something important and I feel my stomach start to get all jittery and jumbly . . .” Fingers bent like a claw, she circled her hand in front of her midsection, then flattened her palm to quickly thump-thump over her heart. “Or when my pulse quickens and pounds in my ears. You know what helps?”
Collectively the students shook their heads.
“I take all that energy—’cuz that’s what it feels like, like electricity zipping through me—and I turn it into fuel, feeding my determination to kick a—kick butt.” She chuckled at her near blooper and turned to the club’s director with an expression that mimicked the grimace emoji she had texted him, along with an eye-roll face, in response to one of his jokes.
Laughter tittered through the crowd.
“Then I go out on that stage and give my absolute best.” Her amber eyes alight with enthusiasm, Catalina crossed in front of Patricio as she spoke, her boots eating up the distance to the left side of the bleachers.
Enthralled by her animated speech, the kids shifted to follow her progress.
The cameras lined up along the top center row and huddled at the bottom corners near the gym doors trained on her every movement.
Even Patricio couldn’t take his eyes off her. Hell, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Catalina ever since she and Mariachi Las Nubes had blown away the competition in the first round of the Battle, and each round after that. Then, when she joined him onstage for the San Antonio concert and again in Houston, he’d been zapped by the electricity she spoke of now. It made him—she made him—feel alive in a way he hadn’t for a while now.
His growing infatuation with her playful smirks and overflowing confidence . . . his inability to stop imagining her in his arms, his lips and tongue and hands exploring every delectable inch of her body, discovering her erogenous zones, and turning her husky laughter to moans of pleasure. Madre de Dios, even now, in a gym packed with hormonal teens and a gaggle of paparazzi cameras trained on him, Patricio found himself turned on by her wit and charm.
That’s why he had ghosted her the past few days, scrambling to suppress this infernal attraction that could only spell trouble for his ill-thought-out plan. Of course, he should have known that Catalina would be undeterred, almost literally tackling Alberto to the ground as she finagled her way onto Patricio’s bus yesterday.
“Because when it comes down to it, doing our best—or trying our hardest—is all we can ask of ourselves,” Catalina continued, her ease in connecting with the kids reminding Patricio of her role teaching music lessons at the Casa Capuleta Community Center. “My parents have always told my eight sisters and me that if—” She broke off on a laugh at the smattering of “no me digas,” the “you don’t say” twittering through the crowd in one variation or another in both Spanish and English. “Yeah, you heard that right. There are nine of us Capuleta siblings. All girls.”
“I’ve met them, and let me tell you, her parents are saints,” Patricio added. Catalina sent him a wide smile, love for her familia shining on her beautiful face. His chest tightened with a sensation he chose not to define.
“Yes, they are,” she agreed, then turned back to face the kids. “My papá and mamá believe that, at the end of the day, if you can look yourself in the mirror and honestly say ‘I tried my best,’ pues eso es lo más importante. Or, because we don’t all speak Spanish here, that’s what’s most important.”