The best Patricio could do was lift a shoulder in a half-assed shrug. Pride and shame kept even a simple “yes” locked inside.
How could he admit how long he had held back, never pushing the envelope creatively, cognizant of his father’s expectation that Patricio “know his place.” Stepping into a different arena with his last album, one where competing with his father was not a concern, had been a way to stretch himself. Spread his wings without worry of overshadowing El Rey. And still his viejo had found fault.
“I think George was right,” she told him. “Unplugging from distractions will do you good. Hopefully it’ll do us both good. Mark my words, amazing things will come of our time here. I mean, how can we not be inspired in a place as breathtaking as this?” She spun around to face Mother Nature’s playground, now shrouded by the night’s cloak.
The moon hung low in the darkened sky. Its glow draped the mountains protecting the bay and trailed a wavery silver path across the calm water. Above them, stars glittered on a velvety backdrop. If they ventured down to the hut with a flashlight to guide their way, the stars would sparkle even brighter. Just like Cat, with her vibrant spirit and the strength of her conviction, had brightened his gloomy world.
Suddenly, an all-consuming need to hold her close swept over him. It would be so easy to step behind her and wrap his arms around her in a tight hug. To confide in her and allow her enthusiastic energy to buoy him. But holding her wouldn’t be enough. One whiff of her tantalizing scent mingled with the salty ocean air could tip him over the edge. He’d give in to this unrelenting urge to taste her lips, caress the soft skin along her elegant neck, and ignite the flames of desire that had blazed in her eyes when he’d run to check on her in her hotel room.
Instead, he kept his feet firmly planted a friendly distance away. Hands safely stuffed in his pant pockets. He could not act on his attraction. It would disrespect her parents. It would disrespect her. He already risked her wrath should his duplicity come to light; he refused to make things worse by acting on his desire and risking her reputation.
“I don’t know about you”—Cat tossed him a playful glance over her shoulder—“but tomorrow, I plan to splash around in this pool and soak up some sun on one of those comfy loungers that make me dream about hunky cabana boys who’ll bring me frozen drinks.”
“A cabana boy, I am not. Hunky? I’ve been called worse.”
Her throaty chuckle teased a smile of his own. She moved to his side, angling her head and batting her eyelashes with exaggerated flirtation. “So, I can count on you to whip up a refreshing umbrella drink? Maybe with that tequila you’re so fond of.”
“Ay, mujer, por favor. Verona Tequila is a one-of-its-kind spirit you sip and appreciate. Throwing it in a blender with sugar and fruit juice would be a disgrace.” He tugged her ponytail playfully, relieved she was no longer giving him the cold shoulder.
She wrinkled her nose in complaint, but her eyes smiled up at him. “Fine. You can sip yours. I want a brain freeze with my drink. I’m sure you have something else I can use for a daiquiri. The main point I’m trying to make is this.” Looping her arms around one of his, she hugged it tight. Her cushiony breasts pressed against his biceps, and the air backed up in his lungs. “A partnership should be mutually beneficial.”
Sí, and he could think of plenty mutually beneficial acts he’d like to do with her. Right now. On one of the lounge chairs by the pool.
“Writing music together will help me get where I want to go,” she rambled on, and he shifted his stance, trying to relieve the pressure building behind his zipper. “Let me help you get past this block or rut or rough pat—”
“Okay, okay,” he grumbled. “It’s not like you’re searching for the perfect word for a lyric in a song about my struggles. If I wasn’t blocked, I could write an entire damn album about them.”
“See! You’re already getting the mood!” Releasing his arm, she stepped back and happy clapped with an excited grin.
Immediately he missed her warmth. Her touch. He was definitely in the mood . . . for something.
But Catalina was on a different wavelength—one that involved working, rather than playing, together—and he’d seen her in action during the Battle and their concert rehearsals. Once an idea struck, she went full steam ahead. Naysayers be damned.
Which was exactly what he wanted—to silence the naysayers and push past this block. If he couldn’t do that now, with her, Padua would force another writer on him. And he didn’t want someone else.
He wanted Catalina.
“In the morning, I’ll show you what I’ve been fiddling with. You can let me know what you think, and we’ll go from there. Like my mamá used to tell us when we complained about Saturday morning chores, many hands make light work. With my hands . . .” She held hers up, palms toward him. “And yours . . .” She waited, wiggling her fingers until he mimicked her jazz hands. “We’ll write the best damn songs Padua Records has ever produced. Of course, my unparalleled talent makes that a given.”
He let his head fall back as he groaned up at the sky.
Her mischievous cackle filled the night air, and for the first time in months, he found himself looking forward to sitting down to make music. Because of her.
Chapter Fourteen
“That is so corny!” Rolling her eyes, Cat flopped from her side onto her back, sinking into the supersize square pillow beneath her.
Overhead, exposed wood beams and slender poles arrowed toward the circular skylight in the center of the hut’s thatched roof. The tail of a wispy white cloud and the pale-blue sky peeked through the opening.
“Oye, who are you calling corny?” A small yellow pillow with red tassels on the corners landed on her stomach, then toppled to the colorful woven rug, punctuating Patricio’s complaint. “You’re the one talking about some ‘I’m on fire, I angst, I die’ emotion that mariachi and ranchera fans crave.”
“I’m on fire, I angst . . . ?” She tapped her mechanical pencil on her chin as she repeated his accusation under her breath, drawing a blank as to what he meant.
“Our first rehearsal at the rental home in San Antonio,” he explained. “You were patting yourself on the back about why the audience loved ‘No Me Olvides.’”
“First of all”—sitting up, she crossed her legs and pointed her pencil at him, lounging on a cushy, red clay–colored beanbag several feet away—“that song resonates because it’s about two people forced to part to live happier lives. I’ve always said, love yourself like you want your lover to, and you’ll be okay.”
“Not sure a song about pleasuring yourself is a good direction for this album. But it’ll be fun for you to try and convince me.”
She frowned. “Pleasuring yourself?”
Dios mío, how did he— Patricio winked and she realized he was teasing. The wise guy was simply giving her single-woman-in-a-healthy-relationship-with-herself mantra a Kama Sutra twist they had no business discussing or, worse, visualizing, with each other.
His beach home already oozed “romantic getaway” instead of “tropical work retreat.” Especially this oblong hut with its den-of-iniquity decor, complete with a fully stocked bamboo wet bar and array of colorful pillows in all shapes and sizes that beckoned you to lie down and make yourself comfortable. Open on the two short sides, the hut provided a spectacular view of the house and grounds behind it and the bay and beach directly below.