However, for her, this trip was business. Nothing more.
That meant not getting carried away like she had last night, hugging his arm while making her appeal for him to accept their partnership. Theirs had to remain a platonic relationship. But the way her breasts had ached for his touch while cushioned against his firm biceps. Uh, totally not platonic. Even now her pulse giddy-upped at the memory. His “pleasuring yourself” joke—as if the guy knew what she’d been up to in her bedroom last night—did not help.
Time to drag them back to the friend zone.
So far this morning, they’d managed to break bread amicably, if with a little needling in the process. Him criticizing the amount of butter she used to fry her eggs. Her turning up her nose at the puke-green, supposedly-good-for-you smoothie he failed to convince her to taste. No 80/20 diet for her—unless that eighty involved savory Mexican food like her mamá made and the twenty was filled with desserts.
More important than their food bickering, Patricio actually liked her revenge-driven song, and they’d made progress on her idea. Moving their work session from the music room inside to the beach-lookout hut had proven to be the perfect oasis to tap into their creative energy.
“Secondly!” She motioned at him with the pencil again. “The correct quote is ‘I burn, I pine, I perish.’ You need to brush up on your Shakespeare, güey.”
He blew a pffft through his lips and hitched a lazy shoulder. “Shakespeare, ni que Shakespeare. Most of my fans go for the Latin-lover appeal.” He struck a lazy pose on the beanbag, one that was far too sexy for her own good.
“Nuh-uh.” Determined to keep things light, Cat picked up the yellow pillow he’d thrown and tossed it back. “You did not just go there.”
His cocky smirk flashed. The rolled-up sleeves of his white linen shirt slid to the top of his muscular forearms as he stretched his arms high, then linked his fingers to tuck his hands behind his head on the beanbag. “When you got it, flaunt it.”
“Ay. Dios. Mío. The ego on this one.” She dropped her pencil in the crease of her songwriting notebook, set it next to her guitar on the brightly colored woven rug, and hopped to her feet.
Patricio’s laughter followed her to the edge of the hut floor and out onto the brushed-concrete deck. A large netted area attached to the deck jutted out about fifteen feet, looming over the rocks and sea foam–topped waves below.
She stopped with her toes barely touching the netting’s steel-bar frame. Face raised to the sun, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, almost tasting the salty water on her tongue.
“Vente conmigo.” Patricio’s invitation to join him had her peeking her eyes open with suspicion.
Standing in the middle of the net, he bent his knees and gave a tiny bounce. The nylon strips rippled under his feet, and she held her breath, petrified one of them might break loose, sending him tumbling onto the sharp rocks below.
“Uh, no thanks.” She shook her head and shuffled back a half step. “I don’t have a death wish.”
“C’mon, I didn’t think you were the skittish type.”
“I have never been accused of having my head in the clouds. More like, my feet on the ground. Which is where I prefer to keep them firmly planted. Not—whoa!” She yelped as he stepped toward her, arms flapping at his sides to keep his balance on the unstable net.
“Just try it,” he urged. He held out his hand, the angles of his chiseled face softened by his reassuring expression. “Seriously, it’s a comfortable place for a nap.”
“We should be working. Not napping.”
“All work and no play . . .”
“Gets an album written,” she finished.
His grin widened, his straight teeth a row of bright white against his bronze skin. “You’re relentless.”
“Determined.”
“Scared.”
“Prudent. Which isn’t a word typically used to describe me. But this . . .” She glanced down at the supersize hammock and winced.
“Vente.” Patricio bent his fingers back and forth, beckoning her.
Her gaze cut from his face to his open palm to the water crashing onto the rocks below. Tentatively, she lifted a hand. Then quickly pulled it back. Her fingers wiggled, stretching toward his.
“Trust me.” His husky whisper washed over her, allaying her fear.
Placing her palm in his, she gingerly stepped onto the netting. It sank under her foot, and she yelped again.
“I got you,” he promised, tightening his grip on her hand and reaching for the other. The sincerity in his Americano-coffee eyes led her to believe him.
The breeze whipped her short sundress around her upper thighs, plastering the soft yellow cotton to her torso. Several strands from her loose ponytail draped across her cheek, and she turned her head into the wind so it could blow the hair out of her face. The warmth of his hands cradling hers and the appeal of his encouraging smile calmed and quickened her pulse at the same time.
He led her several feet out, then slowly bent his knees, nodding for her to do the same. Her fingers squeezed a death grip on his as they lowered until they sat cross-legged, facing each other.
“See, that was easy,” he said.
“For you, maybe. For me?” She tipped to the side and peeked at the sandy rocks. Another wave crashed against them. Water sprayed into the air, catching on the wind and sending a refreshing mist that skimmed over them.
Patricio released her and lay back—eyes closed, elbows bent, hands cushioning his head. “Try to relax. Let the sound of the water lull you to rest. Savor the warmth of the sun’s rays on your face. Enjoy the breeze teasing your hair, caressing your skin.”
Damn, he had a way with words. No wonder his songs resonated with listeners. His lyrical advice sure as hell resonated with her.
Hesitantly, Catalina stretched out beside him. One of her knees brushed the side seam of his black-and-red tiki-print board shorts, and he scooted his hips to make room for her. The netting undulated and she sucked in a breath.
“¿Estás bien?” He turned his head to squint at her.
The netting’s two-inch-wide nylon strips dipped under her weight, pressing into her skin. It was almost like lying in a hammock in the courtyard at Casa Capuleta, and she found herself releasing the tension in her muscles. “Sí, I’m good.”
They lay like that for a while, side by side with only the sounds of crashing waves and the occasional squawk of a bird interrupting their companionable silence. Cat listened to his slow, even breaths, hyperaware of his proximity.
His fingertips brushed the back of her hand, and she swiveled her head to face him.
“I’m going to grab something from the house. You stay,” he added when she started to sit up. “I’ll be right back.”
Once again, she stiffened as he made his way across the net to safety. The netting rippled and swayed, and she willed herself to move with it rather than freak out. Soon enough the motion slowed. Her anxiety dissipated and her eyes, initially scrunched closed in fear, remained closed against the sun’s glare.
She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, Patricio was calling to her from the shadows inside the hut.
“I brought us a post-lunch snack, si tienes hambre.” He raised a serving tray, and she realized that, yes, she was hungry. Their grilled chicken and kale salad hadn’t filled her enough to last until dinner.