A camera flashed over his father’s shoulder, and suddenly Patricio was transported to their first performance together when he was only five. A montage of shared moments on the stage over the years flitted through his memory. Moments when they’d connected in a way they hadn’t or couldn’t offstage, made possible through their shared love of music and pride in their culture. Moments like now.
Moments he deserved to want to remember, not bury because of disappointment over limiting himself. No more.
Cat’s strength of character and ability to face her demons, accepting Pedro’s story as his lived version of their brief familia history. Witnessing her cautiously allowing the man into her life, if still at arm’s length, was eye-opening. It showed Patricio that a loved one’s flaws didn’t have to translate into shortcomings of your own.
Now, he gave himself up to the lyrics and notes, singing like he never had before with his father—with abandon.
By the end, they stood side by side at center stage, arms looped around each other’s backs, facing the standing ovation. His father’s palm pounded Patricio’s shoulder blade, and through the raucous cheers, Patricio swore his viejo told him, “Fantástico, mijo.”
The adulation for them continued, but soon the excitement shifted as cries of “Catalina!” alerted him that she had taken her spot at the top of the stairs. He turned to face her and his heart hiccuped in his chest when he saw her.
Vibrant and beautiful. With an air of confidence in who she was and what she brought to the stage. She tipped her head at the crowd and sent him a cheeky wink that had him wanting to storm up the stairs and kiss her smiling lips.
“Gracias for the warm welcome! Before we close, let’s give it up for the original, one and only, El Rey, Vicente!” she cried into her mic. The audience responded with gusto.
“And for the next Galán generation, Patricio, brilliantly combining tradición and pop to give us sounds and songs that, if you’re like me, make your heart pound, your cheeks heat, and your knees get weak, verdad?”
“¡Sí!” the crowd answered in unison.
Catalina paraded down the stairs, the gold thread in the embroidery of her red charro and the gala trailing down the sides of her pantalones catching the stage lights, glinting like the excitement shining in her expressive eyes. He held out his hand for her to take as she joined him and his father. She linked her fingers with his, giving them a tight squeeze.
Despite his initial reservations about Vicente participating in the show at all, Catalina had been right—a compromise, with him not worrying about his father’s ego and being true to himself, had been the perfect way to end the tour.
Mostly, though, everything was perfect because of her.
Later tonight, he planned to do his absolute best to convince her that rules—especially theirs about dating—were meant to be broken.
“I love you, Vegas!” Standing at the terrace railing of his suite, arms outstretched like the actress standing on the ship’s bow in that Titanic movie, Catalina shouted her love for the city lit up around them.
“I’m sure there were plenty at the concert who return the sentiment to you,” Patricio said. Himself included.
Glancing at him over her shoulder, she sent him an impish grin. “Gracias.” She spun around and leaned her elbows on the railing to face him. “You were great. Especially during the encore with your dad and in the meet and greets after. I’m so proud of you.”
Her praise washed over him like refreshing rain on a parched flower bed, bringing new life to what had been withered and dull.
“And you, inviting Pedro to join Blanca in the VIP box. That was a big step.”
She hitched a shoulder, tilting her head toward it like the invite was no big deal, but he knew better. He knew her better.
“Why’d you do it?” he pressed, awed by her generosity and ability to at least try and see her harrowing past from a different perspective.
“The same reason you compromised.” Crossing the tile, she sat on the end of the gray outdoor sectional where Patricio reclined, enjoying the view of the Strip. But mostly of her. Tucked in a corner where a partial wall and several tall potted plants provided added privacy, the extra-wide sofa had enough room for two people to lie down and relax, or do something more active, together.
Barefoot and wearing a yellow-and-white-striped maxi dress with a fitted bodice, Cat looked bright and summery and enticing. All of which had him considering several “something more active” ideas he’d willingly engage in with her if she were so inclined.
“Talk about an exhilarating night,” she said, reaching for her Tito’s and soda with lime. “The band was on fire!”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hang out with some of them a little longer? I can text a few, see if they wound up anywhere you want to go,” Patricio suggested.
Not exactly his preference, but this was her first tour. He understood if she was still on the final-performance high.
The entire team had toasted the end of the tour backstage, then broken off in smaller groups to enjoy the revelry and mayhem of Vegas.
At that point, Alberto had bidden them all good night, claiming his viejito bones were tired. George—who had been instrumental in convincing the other executives that a surprise encore was a win-win for everyone—had blamed an early flight for his need to head back to his room. He’d given Patricio the finger after being reminded of the times George had partied all night, then caught the first morning flight without his head even hitting the pillow.
Catalina sipped her drink, then shook her head. “Not really. Blanca and Luciano weren’t going out either. Sounded like they wanted some alone time before she leaves at noon tomorrow. We still have some feelings to work through, but I’ll see her later this week when I head home.”
“Speaking of which.” Patricio set his glass of añejo on the metal side table, then scooted down to the end of the sofa, his legs stretched out behind her. “Are you still good with sticking around here to keep working on some music for a few days? Then, in a few weeks, you can fly out to Puerto Vallarta?”
“Mmh-hmm. That’ll give me time to share some of my new ideas for Las Nubes with the girls. And it’ll be nice to give my mom a break from music classes before I leave town again.”
“I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you home.” Needing to touch her, he toyed with the ends of her hair, running his fingers through their silky waves. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help feeling jealous of the familia who would get time with her while he’d be at his beach house alone.
“Plus, I’m not sure what Padua might have in mind for me now that the tour is over,” she added.
“Bueno, I have a few ideas.”
“You do?” She twisted to face him. “Like what?”
He shook his head, not ready to share yet. Only George knew what Patricio wanted to finagle.
As a friend and record executive, George had offered to get a read on some of the older executives and how they might react. What Patricio intended to propose would be a significant change to his contract. Something the old guard might be wary of. Contractually, he owed Padua two more solo albums. Patricio wanted to put the songs he and Cat had written on hold, allowing him to release his next album completely on his own. Then, before his second, he’d give them another—a combined Patricio Galán and Catalina Capuleta album. Duets and singles written and performed by the two of them.