“Gimme a sec,” she called back.
Standing on the wobbly net without the reassurance of his hold was a no go. Instead, she crawled to the edge, releasing a sigh of relief when she reached the steel beam connecting the net to the concrete deck.
“Grace is not your middle name, huh?” Patricio asked as she clambered to her feet.
“Cabrón must be yours, though,” she shot back.
“How about Cabana Boy instead?” He held up a wavy-shaped glass filled with a peachy-orange frozen drink, a piece of fresh mango hanging on the rim.
“Get out of here! You made me a daiquiri?” She hurried forward, touched by his thoughtfulness. “I take back most of the snide remarks I’ve made about you.”
“Hold up.” Instead of handing her the drink, he lifted it high out of her reach. “Only most? And who have you been bad-mouthing me to?”
“Just a little,” she hedged. He squinted a glare at her, and she quickly added, “But to be fair, until recently, you deserved it.”
His moody humph didn’t mean he forgave all her chisme, but he passed her drink over and she didn’t waste any time sampling it. She hummed her satisfaction at the sweet rum and mango flavors titillating her taste buds, then followed him to a squat dark-stained wooden table surrounded by pillows.
He set down the tray loaded with a plate of fresh mango, pineapple, cantaloupe, and papaya; a small dish with a variety of raw nuts; a beveled glass of his craft tequila; and, surprisingly, her cell phone.
She picked up her cell and eyed him with an unspoken question.
“It was vibrating on the kitchen counter when I went up. Looks like you missed a call from Blanca,” he replied.
“What? No!” Cat sank onto a sunflower pillow with a frustrated groan. “That girl’s been dodging my calls for days because she knows I’m right. Figures I miss her when she finally works up the courage to talk.”
“Give her a quick call.”
“She probably won’t answer.” Disappointed, Cat sucked on her straw and watched Patricio toss several walnut halves into his mouth, then lean back to prop an elbow on the mountain of pillows beside him.
With the top two buttons of his white linen shirt undone, exposing the curves of his tanned pec muscles, and his dark, wavy hair beachy windblown, he was the epitome of one of his sexy cologne ads come to life. Sinful and provocative. Making it far too easy for her to picture them lying on a bed of pillows, bathed in the moonglow filtering through the skylight. Exploring and tasting and—damn him for giving her creative imagination this idea—pleasuring each other.
“Something going on between you two?” he asked.
“Hmm?” She blinked at him, lost in her lusty musings. Which, she reminded herself, she should put a stop to.
“Blanca’s your birth sister. Also, the more quiet one in your group, verdad?”
“Mm-hmm.” She took another sip of her daiquiri and considered whether to bring up Patricio’s band member. The man behind Blanca’s passive-aggressive phone silence and the knot of fear and frustration in Cat’s stomach. “¿Te puedo preguntar algo?”
“With you, that could be a loaded question. But, sure, what do you want to ask?”
“What can you tell me about Luciano?”
“Gomez?” Patricio speared a chunk of pineapple with a toothpick, pausing with the fruit halfway to his mouth when she nodded. “He’s been with me for a few years. Good kid. Talented trumpeter. Stays out of trouble on the road and works hard.” Patricio slipped the fruit in his mouth. Her gaze zeroed in on his lips as they closed around the toothpick before he slid it out and set it aside. The tip of his tongue swept over his bottom lip, licking away a drop of pineapple juice. She squeezed her thighs together and swallowed the lusty moan building in her throat.
He chewed and swallowed before continuing. “His papá played and toured for years with a few other bands before he passed away. He had a heart attack, about six months before Luciano came on board. ¿Por qué?”
Why?
A risky question to answer, since she refused to reveal the real reason behind her “no mariachis” rule. There was no need for Patricio to know the impetus for the vow she had extracted from Blanca when they were kids. A vow her sister now seemed intent on breaking.
Carefully considering her response, Cat speared a slice of papaya and nibbled on the sweet fruit. “Apparently, according to the story I got from Violeta, one of the twins, he and Blanca connected during rehearsals for the tour kick-off concert in San Antonio. I found out last week that they’ve remained in contact.”
“Interesting.”
That was one word for it. She preferred “disastrous.”
“If I knew Luciano better, I’d give him a heads-up.” Playing it cool so as to not pique Patricio’s interest, Cat took her time deciding which cube of mango to select. “I can’t help feeling like I should let him know that Blanca and I have the same unbreakable rule: no dating mariachis.”
“¿De veras?”
“Yes, really.” She raised her brows, mimicking Patricio’s surprised expression.
“Do all of the Capuleta girls?” He swirled the añejo in his short glass but abruptly stopped, nearly spilling the expensive spirit. “Wait, no, they don’t. Mariana and Angelo, they’re together, verdad?”
Cat nodded, mentally tiptoeing through options for how this conversation could go, like a chess player strategizing her game. “Just Blanca and me. We’re biological sisters. Our pact doesn’t include the other girls. But there’s no breaking it. We swore to not be like—we just won’t.”
“So, this ‘unbreakable rule’ stems from something that happened before you arrived at Casa Capuleta.”
It was more statement than question. Cat chose to treat it as such and not reply. Patricio tapped a finger on his glass rim, his face pensive. That deliberative problem-solving nature of his, which, as a hothead, she normally admired, now made her antsy.
“Is it safe to guess that with Luciano having found his way into the picture,” Patricio eventually said, “you’re worried Blanca might consider changing her stance?”
“No. That won’t happen. I won’t let it.”
Patricio eyed her in silence for several weighty beats. “You know, you can’t actually control whether it happens or not.”
She speared a pineapple chunk with so much force the toothpick broke in half. A fractured piece stuck out of the fruit, the tip jagged and splintered. Her therapist would advise that she examine the fear clawing at her chest. Talk it through. Journal about it. Cat channeled all those emotions into her music. That’s how she coped. Pain and joy, fear and hope . . . they were all fodder for her songs. Like the revenge anthem she and Patricio had brainstormed for most of the day. She understood that emotion well, as did he, apparently.
“Hey.” Patricio’s voice was as gentle as his touch, warm hands deftly removing the piece of toothpick from her clenched fingers, then wrapping around hers. “It’s going to be okay. You and Blanca have a tight bond. I’ve witnessed the close relationship all you Capuletas share. That’s definitely unbreakable. Give her a call. Talk this out. But word of advice, if you don’t mind: watch that temper of yours. Something tells me Blanca will shut down. Like you said before, passive aggressive is her specialty, right?”