But in this moment of calm after the initial lusty storm, reality tiptoed into the room. An unwanted interloper. She frowned, trying to will away the truth.
It refused to be ignored.
A heavy sigh blew through Patricio’s lips, his gorgeous chest rising and falling with the weight of it. Disappointment and acceptance flitted across his face, and she moved to cup his cheek.
“We should . . . bueno, I guess, more like, we shouldn’t,” she said softly, regretting the words but certain they were the right ones.
“I know,” he answered. He leaned his cheek into her palm. His eyes fluttered closed, as if he were basking in her touch, and a pang of despair burned in her chest.
“If it’s any consolation, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now,” she told him.
“Irresistible. That’s me.” A corner of his delicious mouth curved in a sexy half smirk.
“So modest, this one,” she teased, giving his cheek a playful pat that turned into a lingering caress.
Aware that she was on the verge of tossing caution out the front door like another unwelcome visitor, Cat started to pull her hand away. He clasped her wrist, stopping her. She watched, heart in her throat, as Patricio slowly brought her hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss in the center of her palm, his lips warm and wet and oh-so-tempting.
“And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to thinking about how fucking mind-blowing we’d be together,” he admitted, his voice a low rumble that made her toes curl in her sandals.
He stared down at her, his gaze so intense and intimate that she felt the truth of his words deep in her core.
“Unfortunately . . .” He kissed her palm again, then released her, regret painting his handsome face. “We both know this isn’t a wise move. Not with—”
“Not with the tabloids sniffing around. Already hinting that I’m sleeping my way onto your tour.”
He growled low in his throat. “Hijos de puta.”
“Ha!” she scoffed. “Believe me, I’ve called them a helluva lot worse than sons of bitches.”
“Crap like this always comes with our job description. Special perk, huh?”
She scrunched her face in distaste.
“We both have good reasons for our rules against dating. Me, anyone on tour. And you, bueno—” He leaned back, a puzzled frown pinching the area between his brows. “Your no-mariachis-at-all edict. The one your sister might, at present, be unhappy with.”
Alarmed by his reference to their earlier conversation, Cat sat up and slid down the supple leather away from him. “I have my reasons. Solid ones. Ironclad, really.”
“Forged during the time before you arrived at Casa Capuleta,” he said.
The fact that he remembered her slip of the tongue made her regret bringing up Luciano and Blanca in the first place. Very few knew any details about her birth father. No one other than her and her sister knew his name, since he wasn’t listed on their birth certificates. To make sure it stayed that way, Cat had thrown away every paper and photograph, anything tied to him, the day her birth mom had been picked up by ICE while working at the Laundromat. They’d seen it happen to others in their neighborhood before. Cat had even heard about kids being sent to live with relatives they barely knew. No way could she let the authorities pawn her and Blanca off on the man who had already made it clear that he didn’t want them.
“Catalina?” The insistence in Patricio’s voice told her this wasn’t the first time he had called her name while she’d been lost in painful memories she hated to dredge up.
“Look, I’d rather not talk about that,” she answered. “And, we should probably forget about what just happened. Chalk it up to hormones and a release of tension after your father’s not-so-friendly visit, okay?”
She smoothed her dress over her knees and stared down at her toes, avoiding Patricio’s gaze. Praying he’d go along with her lame reasoning.
“If that’s what you want,” he finally said, drawing out the words.
“It is.”
An uncomfortable tension arced between them. Unwilling to let this one brief—albeit incredible—incident ruin the progress they had made earlier, she straightened her shoulders and angled to face him.
“I think we lost track of what Papo’s long-standing feud with Hugo Montero taught us,” she said, aware she definitely needed the reminder. “Any business partnership will fail if truths are withheld and if emotions are allowed to get in the way.”
“Easier said than done,” Patricio mumbled, rubbing a hand along his nape.
“Few things worthwhile are easy. And our writing partnership, working on an album that will blow everyone away? That’s worthwhile. So, writing partners, and the other . . . bueno, let’s just leave it at writing partners, deal?”
She stuck out her hand to shake on it.
Patricio tilted his head, considering. But she couldn’t back down. Too much was riding on her success. No way could she let sex or lust or whatever fleeting emotion this was get in her way.
They needed to put each other back in the friend zone. For their own good. Or at least for hers. So, she willed herself not to blink. To hold his gaze, steady and sure and confident. Even if inside, a small part of her yearned for more.
Finally, Patricio nodded. His big hand enveloped hers. Her heart flip-flopped at the warmth of his palm, his long fingers wrapped around her smaller ones. Resolutely, she ignored it.
“Deal,” he murmured.
Her cell phone vibrated in her dress pocket, and she flinched, startled by the interruption. Slipping her hand out of his, she dug for her phone, relieved and anxious when she saw Blanca’s name flashing on the screen.
“It’s my sister, I-I have to take this.” Excusing herself, she hurried to one of the sliding glass doors leading to the back patio. With a worried glance over her shoulder at Patricio, she stepped outside and slid her thumb across her cell screen to answer the call.
“Bella Blanca, it’s good to hear your voice,” Cat crooned, hoping her sister’s childhood princess name, Beautiful Blanca, would break the wall of ice Blanca had erected between them in the days since their familia dinner last Wednesday.
“Um, yours, too. I’m . . . I’m sorry I’ve been, you know, out of touch. Perdóname.” Blanca’s stilted greeting, double apology, and subdued voice pinched Cat’s conscience.
Her sandals slapped against the wooden deck as she strode toward one of the canopied areas, where a group of cushioned loungers awaited. She wanted to rail at her younger sister. Order Blanca to cut ties with the mariachi trumpeter before she wound up hurt and disappointed, her heart broken. Her face streaked with hot tears. Her dreams of a storybook happily-ever-after dashed. Just like their birth mother.
But with her eyes closed against the late-afternoon sun playing peekaboo from behind a dark cloud, Cat could easily picture Blanca’s troubled expression. Hazel eyes shadowed, smooth brow puckered, lower lip caught between her teeth. Worry was her sister’s best friend—a constant companion since their early years experiencing their birth mother’s bouts of anguish and depression. Regular therapy helped Blanca, as it did for all the Capuleta sisters, each dealing with their own issues; however, as the familia worrywart, poor Blanca would probably always wear her emotions on her sleeve.