Yeah, Patricio understood his friend’s not-so-subtle message. But it wasn’t that easy.
“You know as well as others, I won’t date anyone on tour,” Patricio said.
“Sí, pero el tour ends in—”
“And she has a no-dating-mariachis rule.”
Gordo reared back so fast he banged his head on the window shade behind him. “¡No me digas! Wow, that’s . . . ¡qué chingada!”
“Shhh!” Alberto shushed Gordo and jerked his head toward the back of the bus.
But the designer was right—Patricio’s relationship with Catalina was a “you don’t say, fucking mess” of a situation. And Gordo didn’t even know the half of it.
The pocket door started to slide open, and Patricio swiped a hand across the front of his neck giving Gordo the kill it sign.
“Are you ready?” Catalina called.
For her, Patricio was starting to think his answer might be “always.”
Her fingers hooked on the metallic recessed pull, set to tug the pocket door open, Cat paused. Anticipation, excitement, even a touch of nervousness buzzed inside her, like cicadas awakening after their years of slumber.
Dropping her hand back to her side, she turned to stare at herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the short hallway wall. That was her reflection. Intellectually, she knew that. Emotionally, it was hard to believe.
Hands trembling, she smoothed the lapel of the short bolero jacket and the vest beneath it, over the heart and vine of roses embroidered in black and metallic gold along the sleeves, the same embellishment that trailed across her lower belly and under the shiny gala marching down the side seams of her pantalones. Lightly she traced the embroidery with her fingertips—the roses a reminder of Las Nubes, her parents and sisters, and all they had done for her over the years. Putting up with her demanding taskmaster tendencies when it came to Las Nubes rehearsals and performances, accepting her bid for perfection as she sought her dreams of mariachi stardom.
Without her familia, she wouldn’t be here.
Here. On Patricio Galán’s private bus. Wearing a one-of-its-kind RS original designed and created for her. Set to debut the charro in front of a sold-out crowd at the Forum in Los Angeles.
Pride swelled in her chest. Tipping her chin, she eyed her reflection critically. Even without her makeup game face on, and with her hair tugged free from the ponytail holder to fall in a mass of beachy windblown waves and her feet bare, wearing the charro made her feel unstoppable.
So why, then, was nervousness tiptoeing across her shoulder blades and stopping her from sliding open the door to reveal herself?
“Catalina? You okay?” Patricio’s deep voice carried through the door, inadvertently answering her question.
He was why.
Because as she’d gotten to know him better, spending more one-on-one time with the real Patricio over the past week—in Puerto Vallarta, then on the road in Phoenix and San Diego—his opinion had begun to matter. Beyond as a writing partner. Even beyond the role of industry mentor, offering advice and sharing insider knowledge.
Patricio the friend—the man—was starting to matter more than she wanted to admit.
And that . . . She drew in a shuddering breath. Bueno, it made the protein bar she had hastily inhaled in between showering and racing to meet with Gordo churn in her stomach.
Pressing a palm to her belly, Cat stared in the mirror and gave herself a pep talk. This didn’t have to be a big deal. It was okay if she worried what he thought. If she took his advice and opinions under consideration. As long as she didn’t allow them to supersede what she felt was right.
As long as she remained in control of herself and her future.
And in this charro—straightening her shoulders, she grabbed the hem of the short bolero jacket and gave it a strong tug—she felt like she could accomplish anything.
“Ready or not, here I come!” she singsonged.
The pocket door slid open with a light scrape, and she strutted into the living area, head high.
She was Catalina Capuleta, and nothing could stop her.
Bueno, except the sight of three men, eyes wide, speechless and slack-jawed as they stared at her.
Gordo recovered first, punching a fist in the air and letting loose a high-pitched grito that nearly pierced her eardrums. Alberto’s round cheeks plumped with his wide grin. And then there was Patricio . . . Dark and smoldery, his gaze glided down her body, then slowly back up again. Desire flared in his eyes, and his sexy smirk flashed as he slowly nodded his approval.
Their appreciation fed her already hefty ego, and she lapped it up. Elbows bent, palms raised, she grinned as she spun in a slow circle for them. “Bueno, ¿qué piensan?”
“I think you look divine!” Gordo crowed. “Honestly, you were born to wear my designs, girl.”
One hand on her hip, she struck a runway-model pose and winked at him.
“Work it, baby!” Gordo hooted. Sliding from the booth, he slow walked around her, eyeing his creation. He tugged here, smoothed the material there, hunkered down to check the length of the pants, hopped back to his feet, and fiddled with her necktie.
“You are absolutely stunning, Catalina,” Alberto added. “Your mamá and papá are going to be even more proud when they see you in this.”
His fatherly praise reminded her of Papo’s unending support, and the ache of homesickness squeezed her chest. She sent Alberto a watery smile of thanks.
“And you?” she asked Patricio, who had yet to chime in with his opinion. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Cat’s definitely got his something,” Gordo murmured.
“¿Perdóname?” she asked, uncertain whether she’d heard him correctly.
“Hmm? Oh, no, excuse me. Or bueno, ignore me.” Gordo waved away her question, then reached to brush at her shoulder. “I’m mumbling tonterías out loud while admiring my work.”
Pinching his chin between a thumb and forefinger, the brazen designer stepped back to scrutinize the outfit. Patricio rose from the couch to stand next to Gordo. Two men in black, both in their early thirties, at the top of their game. One tall and lanky, tattooed and pierced, comfortable in his typical baggy concert tee—this one classic Maná. The other equally as tall, but broad shouldered, trim hipped, his Henley clinging to his muscular chest and arms, and his eyes . . . Oh, the heated affection Patricio wasn’t bothering to hide stole her breath.
“What are you thinking for your hair?” Gordo asked.
“My—huh?”
“This gorgeous hair of yours.” She flinched as Gordo lunged behind her to sweep her hair up in his hands as he continued brainstorming her look. “I know you usually wear it up, pero qué piensas if we leave it down? What do you think, Patricio?”
“I’m a fan of loose and wavy.” His low, rumbly voice chased goose bumps up her arms. “But it should be Catalina’s call. This is all her.”
Dios mío, she didn’t know what turned her on more: the thought of Patricio’s hands in her hair, tugging her closer for a kiss, or the fact that the man who had his hands in even the most minute detail pertaining to his show was willingly standing aside and letting her make all the decisions.