“I have listened. And my answer is still no. It’s not what I want for Catalina. It’s not what she would want.”
“¿Y qué?” Vicente pushed the high-backed chair rung with his boot, sending it careening into the one beside it with a metal clang. His patience over having his wishes, his demand, ignored reached its end, and he stood, hands on his hips, nostrils flaring. “Who are you to decide what is best for that young woman? She does not strike me as one to stay quiet, content on the sidelines, while you choose for her, no?”
Patricio’s scathing response shriveled on his tongue as the bald truth of his father’s accusations hit him like a slap to the face. Catalina had been right. Patricio had silenced her. The humbling realization nearly brought Patricio to his knees.
Without his even being aware of it, his behavior had been as Machiavellian as his father’s. Pushing his agenda. It didn’t matter that he believed everything was for her benefit. It wasn’t his decision to make. A true partner should have known better.
Ultimately, he had disrespected the woman he loved. The person who had listened to him bare his soul, then generously helped him to finally be his true self in every sense of the word. While he—he had wounded her in the worst way possible. And in the process, he had also broken his promise to her parents.
The reality of what he had done, what he risked losing, was like a heavyweight champ’s punch. Patricio slapped a hand to his forehead in disbelief and stumbled back, his heart pounding a death knell.
“Vicente, you should go.” Alberto approached them, motioning politely but purposefully toward the foyer and the suite’s front door. “You and Patricio can discuss this later.”
Patricio heard his father’s blustering complaints about being dismissed, but they didn’t register. He didn’t care. Not when he was petrified that he might have ruined things with Cat, the best gift he’d been given in his life. Shell-shocked, he staggered to the living room.
An hour ago, he’d been high on life. On possibilities. On love!
Last night, he and Catalina had taken and given, freely, wantonly, beautifully, with each other. Maybe they hadn’t said those precise three little words out loud. But they had shown one another with their actions and soft sighs. With intense gazes and fingers tightly intertwined. With an early-morning, chaste kiss on the forehead, wrapped in each other’s arms, and his murmured “I could stay like this forever.”
Now, he recognized, too late, that their happily-ever-after storybooks differed. Hers was missing several key passages. Most notably, an admission and apology from him for not being completely up front with her from the very beginning. Making matters worse, his conceit in thinking he not only knew best but that he didn’t need to include her in important conversations placed him in the role of the villain in her book. Rightly so.
Shame sliced through his chest with a double-edged sword, and he buried his face in his hands with a tormented groan. How had he let himself become his father? Arrogant and pushy, his ego driving him with single-minded, selfish intent.
“Mijo, are you okay?”
Alberto’s footsteps drew closer, and Patricio glanced up, storm-tossed and floundering in a turbulent sea of regret. Worry puckered the viejo’s face as his fingers fiddled with one of the buttons on his suit coat. Sunday, and still the old man dressed for the office. He should be home with his familia. Spending time with those he cherished. Not here, picking up the pieces of a heart left broken and lonely, like Alberto had often done for Patricio in the past after an altercation or tumultuous visit with his father. Only this time, the damage had been done by Patricio’s own hand.
Disgusted with himself, Patricio hung his head, unable to look Alberto in the eye.
The cushion next to his shifted, giving way to Alberto’s stocky frame. His assistant, more his mentor and guiding conscience, clasped Patricio’s shoulder tightly.
“La chingaste, mijo,” Alberto told him.
The old man’s blunt “you fucked up, son” should have stung. Instead, the mix of concerned fondness in Alberto’s tone actually had Patricio huffing out a laugh. “Tell me what you really think, viejo.”
Alberto shook Patricio’s shoulder. “It all comes back to the advice I gave you weeks ago, the same advice mi papá gave to me when Magdalena and I were young: a relationship not built on a foundation of truth will crumble.”
“‘I told you so’? That’s what you have for me right now? Ehhhh!” Patricio held up a hand to stall the argument he saw coming. “I get it. You did try to warn me.” He shook his head, knowing Alberto was correct, about the advice and the fact that Patricio had, indeed, screwed things up. “Cat was right—making plans behind her back, expecting her to accept them, was a bullshit move my father would try. I was wrong. I can, and should, admit that. But she’s wrong about something, too. We’re not done. We can’t be through. At least, I fucking hope not.”
“Bueno, pues, what are you going to do? And how can I help?”
Such a different response than his father would have given him. The man rarely admitted his mistakes or chased after someone who pointed them out. Although he had tipped his Stetson to Patricio’s performance last night. And if there was one thing Patricio had learned from the mature way Cat was handling Pedro Santos’s reappearance, it was that Patricio could accept his father’s strong personality, while still holding his own.
Vicente would never be the loving voice of counsel Patricio had craved for so long. And yet, if he needed fatherly advice, Alberto had always been there. As he was now.
“I owe Cat an explanation. An apology. And knowing her, she’ll expect a decent amount of groveling.” Alberto chuckled and Patricio flashed a wry smile. “For her, I will. Pero I should probably give her some time today. Catalina acts on her emotions. Some people call it rash; I call it brave because she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t let fear or doubt get in her way. And sometimes, after the heat of the moment, she reassesses. I can only hope that’s the case with this.”
“Hmmmm.” One hand cupping his elbow, the other clasping his chin, Alberto frowned, his face pensive. “I don’t know, mijo. She was pretty furious. You will have to work hard to convince her.”
“You’re right. And I will. She’s worth everything and more, viejo. I’ll do whatever it takes to win back her trust. La amo.”
Alberto clapped him on the shoulder, a huge grin on his face. “I knew you loved her, mijo. I’ve been waiting for you to realize the gift she is, and the amazing love I believe you two can share.”
“I sure hope so, viejo. That’s my plan. And tonight, the groveling begins.”
In the end, though, it didn’t matter what Patricio had intended for him and Catalina that evening. Because when he called the front desk to have flowers delivered to her room, he learned that she had checked out with her sister and caught a flight home to San Antonio—leaving him behind like that bright-pink WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS tee she’d worn when they had played tourist together.
Desolate, but not down for the count, Patricio got busy devising his plan B.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Ugh! I hate men!” Catalina snatched a bottle of Shiner Bock from the fridge at Casa Capuleta, then pushed the door closed with her hip. She pivoted to face Mariana and their mamá seated on the worn olive sofa in the sala. “Are you sure neither of you wants a beer?”