Anamaría hopped off the bed as if she and Alejandro were still two teens, caught in the middle of something illicit.
“Mami, no te metas,” he cautioned.
“Don’t get in the middle of what?” His mother’s wide-eyed expression telegraphed the opposite of innocence.
As Anamaría shoved her supplies inside her backpack, she caught Alejandro’s resigned gaze in the mirror. They might not agree about the past, but it was obvious they agreed on one important point in the present: They were not happy about their mothers entertaining the idea that the two of them might reconnect.
That ship had sailed. And, like the famed Atocha Spanish galleon of centuries past, it had crashed against the Keys’ ocean reef, sinking to the sandy depths. Buried in a watery grave. Only there was no sunken treasure to recover here. Despite the gleam in Señora Miranda’s eyes.
“Come, I made you un san’wich, también, nena.” She waved Anamaría over to the bed. “Your mamá told me that you met a client right after mass this morning, then came straight here. Tienes que tener hambre.”
No, she wasn’t hungry. More like frustrated. By his presence. By her inability to remain aloof. She didn’t need to eat. What she needed was to get out of here.
And yet she couldn’t be rude and refuse his mom’s invitation. Based on the triumphant gleam in the older woman’s eyes, Señora Miranda had counted on Anamaría’s ingrained manners.
His mom patted the edge of Alejandro’s bed, indicating Anamaría should sit.
He hitched a shoulder, the twist of his lips miming that there was no use arguing.
As she stared at the insistent mother and insufferable son, a flashbulb flicked on inside Anamaría’s head, blinding her with clarity.
Dios mío, she might be in deeper trouble than she had anticipated. One meddling Cuban mami was hard to outwit. Two teaming up?
This called for reinforcements. As in, her brothers and their partners.
First though, she’d have to finagle her way out of this impromptu, unwelcome lunch date with her hardheaded, sinfully sexy, wanderlust-driven ex.
Chapter 3
Alejandro jolted awake with a start. The jerky motion jostled his leg, and a stab of pain shot from his tibia up his thigh.
Digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, he pressed against the headache pounding a sledgehammer in his head. Fuck, he felt like shit.
He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, then squinted out his window. Based on the varying shades of orange and red streaking the purplish-blue sky above their neighbor’s Spanish tiled roof, he’d been zonked out for several hours. Sunset neared. One of his favorite times of day to grab his camera and explore whatever city, town, or village he found himself inhabiting.
Thanks to his sucky luck, his exploring was curtailed for the time being.
Grumbling under his breath, he snatched the water bottle his mom had left on the nightstand earlier. His gaze caught on the prom night photograph of Anamaría. Hazel eyes laughing, lush lips spread in her wide, engaging smile, she quirked her finger in a come-here motion. Had it been a video, he would have heard her get over here and kiss me; you know you wanna right before he snapped the picture.
An order he had eagerly obeyed moments later.
The photograph was one of his favorites of her. One of countless images he’d never been able to delete from his computer. Or his memory.
Her love of life, the positivity she saw in almost everything, her desire to share that positivity making a real difference for others . . . they shone like an aura around her, drawing you inexorably to her.
His ego bruised, his heart battered by her admission that she didn’t know when she’d be ready to follow him to Europe once her papi was better, he’d purposefully left the photograph behind the morning he’d headed to the airport. Convinced he didn’t need her with him. Assuring himself he’d be fine on his own.
A month later, he’d printed himself a new copy. Wallet sized this time, so he could carry her with him wherever he went.
Once, he’d thrown it away in a drunken rage.
Then found himself digging in the trash for her photograph hours later.
Through his closed bedroom door, a familiar deep, rumbling voice carried down the hall from the living room.
Papi was home.
In a Pavlovian reaction, his stomach automatically twisted with years’ old dread and misgivings. His hands fisted at his sides, anticipating their inevitable confrontation.
The last memories with his papi involved pointed barbs exchanged in anger. Emotion-fueled words thrown out, unable to be reeled back in. Worse, others left unsaid.
Guilt over his disgraceful part in their rift had kept Alejandro away. At first anyway.
Later, as the impasse widened, the thought of more rejection and recrimination from his father had silenced him.
A light tap sounded on the door.
The breath stalled in his chest, his apprehension rising. He didn’t know what to expect from the man he’d only seen in the background of video chats with his mom. Their exchanges limited to inane platitudes like, Doing okay, and you? Never sharing anything meaningful.
Alejandro had giving up trying before he’d even left.
Now the man who had never understood him, and made it clear he didn’t care to, waited on the other side of his bedroom door.
“Come in!” Alejandro called, clearing the scratch from his throat when his voice caught on the last word.
“¿Estás despierto, hijo?” His mami poked her head inside.
Relief melted the steely resolve keeping him upright and he sagged back against his pillows at this small reprieve from the anticipated disagreement. “Sí, I’m awake.”
A benevolent smile curved her lips, deepening the crow’s-feet around her eyes, as she pushed the door open and entered.
She had changed out of the rust-colored slacks and tan cotton blouse she’d worn when she and Ernesto had picked him up at the Miami port for the three-hour drive home. Now the sight of her plumping figure draped in a familiar bata lulled the nervous energy jittering up and down his torso.
God, he’d missed seeing her like this. Shuffling around in fluffy slippers and a short-sleeved housedress that hung to mid-shin. Its maroon material decorated with white lilies and greenery in one of the floral patterns she tended to prefer. A thin black headband held the sides of her chin-length brown bob away from her face, leaving the pearl stud earrings he’d sent for her birthday a couple years ago to wink a welcoming hola at him.
“Your papi arrived a few minutes ago,” she told him. Her overly perky voice signaled her worry over the father-son reunion. Much like him. “He brought dinner home from the restaurant. ¿Tienes hambre?”
As if on cue, Alejandro’s stomach growled loudly, answering her question. He pressed a hand to his belly and checked the time on his sport watch. Seven P.M. Of course. For as long as he could remember, Miranda’s closed at 4:00 PM on Sundays, allowing employees the evening with their families before the week started again.
Papi usually brought food from the restaurant, so they could avoid going from the restaurant’s kitchen to the one at home.
“Anamaría said you should eat with every pain pill. Even a little. Your papi brought your favorite, ropa vieja y congrí.”