Gratitude and affection welled in her chest. His lips curved with an encouraging smile, and damn if it didn’t make him even sexier.
Picking up the sketch with the swatch of deep red material with black-and-gold embroidery, she handed the paper to Carmen. She’d been ready to take this step for ages. Only, she had never expected that, when it happened, Patricio Galán would be standing by her side.
Chapter Thirteen
It was past midnight when Patricio heaved a tired sigh and wiped the sweat off his brow with the black hand towel draped around his neck. After a final wave for the fans still gathered across the parking lot on the other side of the steel barricades, he made his way up the steps onto his bus.
A shower, a copita of tequila neat, and sleep. That’s what he needed, in that specific order.
Unfortunately, when he reached the top step, he found George and Catalina on board. His longtime friend and producer had already poured himself a copita from one of the new bottles of Verona Tequila Patricio had brought back with him on Wednesday.
“Didn’t realize I was hosting an after-party,” he grumbled.
“If you were, I wouldn’t be attending,” Catalina answered, her peeved tone proof that she was still annoyed he’d wound up canceling their songwriting session after their arrival in Albuquerque yesterday.
He had been battling a headache, but even to his own ears, the reason sounded as lame as “the dog ate my homework.”
Never mind that the headache was born out of his mind-spinning enigma—how to help Catalina while helping himself. While also ignoring an attraction that, if acted upon, could damage her reputation just as she was rising, and paint him the same mujeriego shade as his father. Worse, any hint that he was following in his father’s womanizing footsteps would negate Patricio’s promise to the parents she video chatted with practically every day.
With an exaggerated sigh, Catalina stretched out on the longer sofa, linking her hands behind her head. The pose arched her back, stretching the thin material of her shirt over the outline of her full breasts. Lust fireballed through him, heading straight for his cock. He shifted and forced himself to look away.
“I have my own party that promises to be way more fun,” she announced in a testy tone. “With the only hot air blowing courtesy of the desert wind. I’m only riding back to the hotel with you per George’s request.”
George arched a brow, eyeing Patricio over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. Great. His friend hadn’t missed her waspish attitude.
Patricio bit back a sigh.
He deserved it, mostly. His original plan to awaken his muse from hibernation by working alongside Catalina and her boundless creative energy was floundering. For a number of reasons.
At the top of that list: his heightened awareness of her.
Even now, exhausted from the physical and mental toll performing live took on him lately, a strange internal radar pinged incessantly, alerting him that Catalina Capuleta was in the vicinity. Looking far too comfortable in his private space. As if she belonged here. Giving him a hard time for not getting work done and at the same time making him grow hard with raging lust.
She hadn’t wasted any time changing out of her charro and handing it off to wardrobe for dry cleaning before their concert in Phoenix on Thursday. Dressed in a pair of pink-and-black cross-trainers, black leggings that hugged her curves, and another one of those blousy shirts—this one bright pink—that let the slope of her shoulder play peekaboo with his libido, she looked ready to hit the gym for Zumba or yoga. Or maybe get cozy on a hotel couch or bed for a night in . . .
That idea had his thoughts U-turning back to the private party she had gloated about. Where was it exactly? And with whom?
He slammed the mental brakes on the questions. The answers didn’t matter. Or they shouldn’t.
“Freddie, we’re ready to roll,” Patricio called out to his driver. The sooner they got back to the hotel, the sooner she’d be off his bus. Leaving only her musky, floral scent behind to tease him.
“Where’s Alberto?” George asked.
“He flew back to Guadalajara this afternoon for his youngest granddaughter’s piano recital.” The bus started, and with George taking up one couch and Catalina the other, Patricio opted for a booth seat at the table.
“Good show tonight,” George said.
Patricio’s mumbled “gracias” mixed with Catalina’s. Neither elaborated.
George rattled the ice in his glass. “Is the hostility I’m sensing here the reason for the uptick in what most fans are labeling sexual tension during your set?”
“Excuse me?” Catalina bolted upright.
“Ching—” Patricio threw his towel at George as he bit off the curse.
“That article and the few it spawned are full of crap.” Catalina drove a hand through her hair, combing the long, wavy locks away from her face, scrubbed free of makeup and still beautiful. Even with her annoyed scowl. “There’s nothing going on between us. Hell, not even songwriting, because I can’t get him to keep a freaking scheduled brainstorm session.”
Patricio felt her pissed-off glare like a burn of shame across the back of his neck. He should stop this sham and level with George. Admit his creativity block.
Pride kept him from spitting out the words.
“It’s been hectic the past two weeks,” he explained. Another lame excuse. “Flying to Guadalajara wasn’t planned, but the trip did clip the thread the paparazzi were using to tie the two of us together.”
“I’ll give you that.” George nodded, his expression pensive. Or—mierda—more like worried. Patricio muttered an even stronger curse than “shit” at his friend and producer’s next words. “But there’s absolutely zero progress on the new album?”
Patricio shrugged, hating the disappointed sigh that expanded and then deflated George’s chest.
“I’ve got a couple song ideas. Some lyrics and a strong chorus for one,” Catalina volunteered. “I went off the notes from that first day, but I’m not sure if they’re exactly what you’re looking for. Or if it’s something Padua might want for another artist.”
Patricio could have kissed her for that suggestion. But for a million and one reasons he’d been repeating to himself lately, he didn’t. Without even knowing it, she had positioned herself perfectly in his thus-far-thwarted game of chess. Relief settled on his shoulder, bumping aside the misgivings and frustration that had taken up long-term residence.
“Mira, güey.” George scooted forward on the couch, motioning with his tequila glass at Patricio. “I know you’ve been struggling since that mess with your—”
“I’m handling it.” His father was not a topic he wished to discuss in front of Catalina.
“He mentioned to another exec that you haven’t been answering his calls,” George pressed.
“I’m busy.”
“Fine, but you should know, there’s talk of him being in Vegas in a couple weeks.” George rattled the ice in his glass again, the sound rattling Patricio’s cage because he knew—he fucking knew—what was coming. “Vicente will be there the same time as your tour.”
“Not happening. It’ll be a cold day—drop it.” Patricio cut his gaze to Catalina.