“Does your father’s reaction to your pop album’s success have anything to do with your writer’s block?”
The hand on her back stilled, then resumed its comforting motion. “Probably.”
“Have you talked with anyone about it? A therapist or a life coach?”
His huff of breath teased her hairline at the top of her forehead.
“I take it that’s a no?” she asked.
“And risk the story getting out, twisted into sensationalist headlines and bogus articles with ‘anonymous insider’ comments? No gracias.”
“What about Alberto or George?”
“They’ve been around long enough to know what Vicente’s like. Alberto’s been with me since before I signed with Padua. They try to intercede when they can. Pero you know how it is with many Latino men, especially in my viejo’s generation.”
She swatted at the shoulder he lifted and dropped in a clear it is what it is shrug. “Ay, deliver me from puro machismo.”
But mental health and the wounds and scars those who were supposedly loved ones gave you weren’t things to be swept under the rug or laughed off or ignored. That’s when they festered, ate away at you. Blocked your creativity.
Thinking back on the last year or so, ever since that first interview when Vicente had mouthed off about the importance of honoring your familia roots and Mexico’s gift to the music industry—mariachi—she realized that Patricio hadn’t really been out in public much. Other than a few special appearances, he had stayed relatively out of the limelight. Until the Battle of the Mariachi Bands and now the tour. But even then, he often kept to himself. Not hanging out with others on the tour. Struggling with his demons alone.
Her heart ached over the realization that, behind his larger-than-life persona that wowed crowds globally, he was actually lonely. Beloved as the younger Galán superstar, longing to be loved for who he really was.
Sitting up, she stared at Patricio as if seeing him through a new lens. “Hiding out here, on your own for months at a time, as gorgeous as this place is, won’t necessarily get you out of your writing funk.”
“But the tequila’s top quality and the view mesmerizing. Especially what I’m looking at right now.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, ran a finger along her jawline, then lightly tapped her chin.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“What will ease this worry?” He traced the pad of a finger between her brows. “And bring back that smile that always gut punches me?”
The fact that he wanted to make her feel better told her that he deserved the same. Maybe they could do that for each other. “Let’s make another deal.”
He blinked in obvious surprise. Then a cagey, what’s up your sleeve scowl descended on the handsome face that had graced the cover and pages of countless magazines. Once even as the year’s sexiest musical artist. Cat grinned, pleased to realize that the smart man knew her well enough to expect the unexpected.
“We’ve already established that this Padua contract and working on your next album are big boosts for my career,” she told him. “And now you know why this is so important to me.”
“I keep telling you, the life in the limelight you seek isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, querida.”
His use of the endearment made her chest tighten with the wish that she were, indeed, his beloved. But that was a fangirl wish, and she had real-life goals to achieve.
Hooking a finger through the slit between two of his shirt buttons, she tugged at the material. “I know, but I can make it work. I’m not like that man who disappointed my birth mother and chased the spotlight at all costs.” She refused to name him. “I’m not your father, who needs it so badly he steals it from you. I want to share mine with my familia. And you’re helping me.”
“You’re doing a good job finding it on your own.” His smile gentle, Patricio smoothed his palm over her head, finger-combing through the length of her hair. This softer side of him made her want to snuggle up against him again, forget the outside world a little longer, and revel in the pleasure they could give each other.
“You don’t know how hard it is for me to not say something snarky like the spotlight was actually made for me.”
He laughed. Rich and warm. Unencumbered and free. Dios, she loved the sound of it. The way his wide smile made her heart swell with warmth and her lips curve with shared joy.
“So, while I still think you should consider talking to a therapist,” she told him, “I can help by kicking your lonesome-dove act to the curb. Instead of hiding out in your palace on wheels when we’re on the road, let’s get out, have some fun. Live a little.”
“No sé.”
“What’s not to know?” she argued. “We’ll find a way to go incognito so you’re not hounded by fans.” She held up a hand, mortified by a sudden thought. “Only, let me handle that part porque your getup when you snuck over to my hotel room? Por favor, that will not cut it.”
“Haters gonna hate, huh?” He pulled on the lock of hair he’d wrapped around an index finger.
“The truth hurts, don’t it?” she teased.
Unease flashed in his eyes, and she figured he was thinking about his father again.
“Come on, humor me. Partners, remember?” She held out a hand to shake on their new agreement. “Deal?”
Patricio’s eyes locked with hers. That pensive expression he often wore when troubleshooting an issue with Alberto or during sound check before a show stared back at her. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she curbed the urge to lick her lips. Wanting him to kiss her. Desperate to kiss him. It was foolish. It was dangerous. It was—
“Deal.” Patricio’s larger hand enveloped hers. “But I get veto power on hiding-from-paparazzi outfits. Nothing too wild, okay?”
Cat grinned. “Ooh, papito, challenge accepted.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I don’t think I would ever get tired of looking out at the water like this.”
At Catalina’s sigh-filled announcement, Patricio took his eyes off the road long enough to enjoy a much better view than the San Diego Bay glistening below as they drove over Coronado Bridge. With the passenger window down and her braid loosened after a Sunday morning trip to the beach, the wind whipped long strands of hair about her head and face. They danced in reckless abandon, just like she had when they’d arrived at Coronado Beach in time for sunrise this morning.
Dropping her beach bag and chucking her chanclas off her feet, she had run toward the water, arms open wide like she meant to embrace the world. The same way she approached everything that interested her. Foot heavy on the gas pedal. Heart all in.
But as soon as her feet met the cold Pacific, she screeched like a howler monkey and backpedaled up the black-grain sand, frightening a group of sandpipers into flight.
Once she got over the shock of the frigid water, they spent the rest of the time relaxing on a sheet she had snagged from one of the maids at the hotel, watching the sun complete its morning routine. The sky changed from muted shades of orange, red, and dark purple to a brilliant, cloudless blue. While the world around them awoke and other beachgoers gradually ventured to their quiet paradise, Patricio and Catalina made progress on a new song. This one, his idea.