Since they’d left Puerto Vallarta on Wednesday, making it to Phoenix in time for a charity event that evening, he and Catalina had fallen into a pattern. Mornings they met on his bus, where they worked on music for a few hours. Early afternoons he tended to other business Alberto held off until then or Patricio ran the sound check. Thursday evening and last night, they brought the sellout crowd to their feet with cries for an extra encore. And, surprisingly, Friday night Catalina had convinced him to join her and several others for a game of cards at the hotel.
When he was with her, he felt alive. Excited, but also relaxed, at peace. So he found himself seeking ways to carve out extra time in her company.
Today should have been a travel day. Instead, he’d given everyone the day off to enjoy San Diego before heading to Los Angeles for the rest of the week. With Catalina still on her get-off-the-bus-and-have-some-fun kick, the two of them had taken their writing session to the beach. Where he had most definitely found some inspiration.
The moment she whipped off her billowy cover-up, revealing a deep-purple one-piece with large cutouts on the sides that exposed the curve of her waist and hips, leaving her skin bare from her bra line to the top edge of her bottoms, he’d been a goner. Then she had stretched out beside him, leaning on an elbow, her long braid draping over her shoulder to rest along the curve of her breast, her shapely legs crooked, teasing him with fantasies of them wrapped around his waist as he drove into her.
The desire to skim his hand up her thigh, over her hip, continuing to the dip at her waist and higher was a pleasure-pain of inspiration for the lonely-for-my-love ballad traipsing through his head. The lyrics coming in bits and pieces.
But they were coming. Music was finally trilling in his head again. Thanks to her.
As if Catalina felt his gaze on her, she turned to shoot him a wide grin. He caught his own smile in the reflection from her oversize sunglasses.
“¿Qué?” she asked.
“Nothing. Like you said, enjoying the view.” He turned back to the road, contentment riding along with them in the rented SUV.
All too fast they arrived back at the hotel near Viejas Arena at San Diego State University, the site of last night’s concert. Patricio pulled into a spot between two vans in the self-parking area so Catalina could hop out and enter the hotel from a side entrance, alone. The less often they were seen together, the less chance of a photograph being snapped.
“Gordo’s supposed to be here in an hour for the final fitting, right?” One hand on the open passenger door, she ducked her head inside to look at him.
“Sí, but he’s coming alone this time. Carmen had to answer an SOS from another client. Something about a wedding dress and a nail polish spill. I didn’t ask for details, pero I’m sure Gordo will dish about it when he gets here with your charro.”
“Which I will keep away from all nail polish. But I am sooooo excited to see it!” She happy clapped like a little girl on Christmas morning, then finger-waved goodbye.
Patricio imagined her eyes behind her sunglasses, alight with glee, turning their honey color to dark amber. He couldn’t wait to see her new charro either.
Correction: he couldn’t wait to see her in it!
“You need some help in there?” Gordo called to Catalina, who was back in the private area of Patricio’s bus trying on the designer’s new creation.
A spurt of uncalled-for jealousy burned Patricio’s gut at the idea of another man being with her in any state of undress. Uncalled for because . . . One, it was Gordo talking. The designer was more interested in his creation and how Catalina wore it, not the smooth skin and luscious curves shimmying into the charro. And two, because Patricio had no right to lay claim on the woman he expected would look stunning in anything. Or nothing. Naked and sated and warm in his arms.
His body immediately responded to the image of him and Catalina lying on a bed of pillows in his den of iniquity, as she teasingly called it. Their bodies wrapped around each other. Hands exploring. Lips and tongues tasting. Mouths breathing sighs of satisfaction.
Gordo drummed his fingers impatiently on the booth tabletop. The sound jerked Patricio back to where he was. On his bus in San Diego. With an audience of two, who did not need to notice his erection.
Shifting uncomfortably on the leather couch cushion, Patricio folded his hands over his crotch.
Alberto unbuttoned his charcoal suit coat and joined Patricio on the longer couch. The expectant expression on the viejo’s round face said he was as excited as the rest of them for Catalina to begin her fashion show.
Gordo’s phone started vibrating, the sound amplified with the cell propped up in the cup holder carved into the wooden table.
“¡Mierda! It’s Carmen. I have to take this outside.” Snatching his phone, Gordo mumbled another “shit” as he slid out of the booth. “Tell Catalina to wait. I don’t want to miss her grand entrance!”
Alberto hopped up to open the door for Gordo, then tucked a hand inside his suit coat to dig for his own trilling phone.
Moments later, the pocket door to the private area slid open a few inches. Half of Catalina’s face appeared in the small gap. “Oye, can someone come help me with something real quick?”
Patricio glanced over at Alberto, who was standing at the top of the stairs, engaged in conversation with someone on his phone. The viejo’s gaze darted from Catalina to Patricio. He mouthed the word “Padua” and pointed at the cell pressed to his ear, then he made a shooing motion for Patricio to handle whatever Catalina needed and turned his back on the two of them.
“Uh, sure. Coming,” Patricio answered.
Catalina backed up as he approached. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, and a worried frown puckered her brow.
Patricio pushed the door open wider to find her wearing a fitted, white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of ass- and hip- and leg-skimming pantalones de charro in a deep blood red. Gold gala adorned the pants’ side seams, while black embroidered roses with a gold metallic accent thread interwoven through the design trailed down her legs and across her trim lower belly.
Barefoot, half-dressed in her charro, hair in a messy bun on top of her head, and her face free of makeup, she was still breathtaking. Only the unease in her eyes marred what he would describe as perfection.
“What’s wrong?” He started to slide the pocket door closed behind him out of habit, then realized it might be misconstrued if the two of them were alone in what was, technically, his bedroom. So, instead, he left the door partially closed to allow her some privacy.
“The zipper’s caught in the material or something,” she whispered, her voice tainted with panic. “I don’t want to rip a hole or . . . or tear the material. This is a freaking RS design!” She twisted like a pretzel as she strained to see the back zipper, her fingers grabbing for the closure. “I can’t see what’s . . . Ay, there’s no way I’ve gained weight since they measured me. Do you think I’ve gained weight? No! Don’t answer that! Dios mío, what do I do?”
It took Patricio a beat to process her verbal barrage. This was as close to freak-out mode as he had ever seen Cat, and she’d been in far more stressful situations. The Battle of Mariachi Bands had pitted Las Nubes against her father’s longtime nemesis, an old traditionalist like Patricio’s father. Cat had gone toe-to-toe with the hardheaded patriarch and never flinched. Then there’d been the time her mic went out in the middle of their set in Irving. She hadn’t missed a beat. Leaning closer to his mic, she’d hammed it up for the crowd and given him a hard time about having to learn how to share. The fans had lapped up her saucy teasing.