Plus, getting him to his room would allow them a small measure of privacy. Not exactly what she personally wanted, but necessary for her to do her job correctly. Instinct told her Alejandro wouldn’t answer her questions about his discomfort levels truthfully. Not in front of his worry-prone mother.
“Ernesto, can you help me?” Anamaría motioned toward the wheelchair parked in the combination dining-kitchen area.
It wasn’t easy, but after a few grunts of complaint peppered with muffled curses, Alejandro settled into the chair, his left leg propped up on the elevated footrest. A light sheen of perspiration covered his haggard face, and she almost felt sorry for him.
Irritated at her reaction, she shoved her first-aid kit in her backpack, then slung the bag over her shoulder to wheel him toward the back of the house and the three bedrooms. Señora Miranda followed close behind them.
As they neared Alejandro’s old room, Anamaría slowed her steps, hesitating.
Memories assailed her. Evil interlopers sabotaging her bid to remain aloof.
Study dates, movie nights, long afternoons spent perusing the latest pictures Alejandro had taken around the island and discussing their lofty dreams. Quick stolen kisses and innocent touches, because the bedroom door always remained open—Miranda and Navarro house rules.
Their last year of high school, when they’d both been ready, they had taken advantage of the rare opportunities when they’d had this house or her parents’ place to themselves. Or stolen clandestine hours lying on a blanket, making out under the stars in the stern of her papi’s boat when he left it docked in the backyard canal overnight, ready for an early-morning fishing trip.
Señora Miranda scooted around the chair to push open Alejandro’s bedroom door, beckoning them in. Anamaría steeled herself and crossed the threshold, stepping inside the sanctuary where she’d once woven her life’s dreams. In her naïveté not realizing the fragility of the threads that tied her and Alejandro together.
Comfort and dismay crashed against each other as Anamaría’s gaze trailed around his room. The space remained unchanged. A shrine to the son who had walked away without a backward glance.
The same navy comforter draped the double bed pressed up against the far wall underneath the window overlooking the side yard. The same sturdy wood dresser sat to the right of the door, the matching dark-stained desk and bookcase on the left next to the closet. On the nightstand, the same framed picture of her mugging for him and his camera before they left for senior prom. Her framed copy sat in a box shoved high on a shelf in her hall closet.
Señora Miranda rolled a black carry-on suitcase into the closet, then tugged the bifold door closed again.
Anamaría shut off the flood of useless memories. She had no time for foolishness.
“Okay, let’s get you into bed.” As soon as the unintentionally suggestive words left her mouth, Anamaría bit the inside of her lips, attempting to squelch an embarrassed curse.
“I don’t remember you being this forward,” Alejandro teased. He glanced at his bed, then back to her. Despite his lecherous smirk, his jaw muscles clenched, his discomfort obvious. Either at their awkward situation or due to his injury.
“Stop being a wiseass. Here, I can—”
“I’ve got it.” The veracity of his words was negated by his sharp hiss of breath when he grasped his injured leg to lower it off the footrest.
“Are you done being a tough guy?” she berated. “Let me help you before you hurt yourself.”
Señora Miranda stepped toward them, but Anamaría shook her head. If he was in as much pain as she surmised, he wouldn’t be much help getting into bed. The last thing they needed was the older woman injuring her back trying to heft his weight.
“Wait a second,” she ordered, reaching down to lower the footrest to make the transition easier. “Now, put your hands on my shoulders for support.”
Bending her knees, she lowered to a half squat in front of his chair, his right knee in between her legs. She gritted her teeth, ignoring her pulse blipping at the anticipation of him touching her again.
Several seconds ticked by without Alejandro making a move to follow her instructions. Anamaría glanced at him from under her lashes.
A deep groove etched the space between his brows at his stubborn frown.
She huffed, then matched him scowl for scowl. “Look, I carried a two-hundred-pound dummy over my shoulder down two flights of stairs during drills yesterday. I think I can handle another dummy—”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Palms up, Anamaría crooked her fingers in a “come on” gesture at him. The sooner they got this over with, the better.
With a disgruntled sigh, Alejandro set his hands on her bare shoulders. One of his thumbs slipped under her tank top strap to slide against her skin. Warmth seeped into her chest, and she barely kept her eyes from fluttering closed.
“Now, using only your right leg and my shoulders, push yourself to a stand. Do not put any pressure on your left. Got it?” she ordered.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he muttered.
He shifted, then froze on a hiss. His fingers dug into her shoulders, disgruntled pain filling his black-coffee eyes. His piercing gaze darted to his mom, then back to Anamaría in a silent plea for her to not say anything. Keep the degree of his discomfort a secret from his mom.
Anamaría answered with a faint, affirmative tuck of her chin. “Okay . . . one. Two. Three.”
His muffled groan punctuated the end of her count as he shifted his weight onto his right foot and bent forward. The muscle in his thigh flexed with the exertion and she grasped his waist to both steady and support him. The hard jut of his hip bones pressed into her palms, proof of his recent post-accident weight loss.
Hunched over, he pressed the side of his face against her temple, his breathing labored. The urge to hug him closer, give thanks that the idiot was actually safe, consumed her. This close, his woodsy, patchouli scent assailed her senses, setting her body tingling in places it had absolutely no business tingling.
Jaw clenched, she ignored the unwelcome reactions, focusing on the task at hand.
Together they shuffle-twisted toward the mattress in a move that had them imitating two middle schoolers at their first dance, awkwardly holding each other at arm’s length. Leaving room for the Holy Spirit between them, like the nuns at St. Mary’s used to warn the students.
With his fingers still clenching her shoulders, she guided his hips, turning him so he could sit on the edge of his bed. Without impressionable little Lulu around to hear, Alejandro didn’t bother whispering his curses as he pushed himself farther onto the mattress while Anamaría carefully held his injured leg aloft.
Señora Miranda slid several cushiony pillows beneath his knee, careful of the top Ilizarov ring. She hovered over her son, mumbling prayers and Spanish platitudes about her precious niñito’s misery. Typical Cuban mami hovering, no matter her children’s ages.
Seizing her window of opportunity, Anamaría put part one of her impromptu plan into action. “Señora Miranda, would you mind bringing Alejandro some water? It’s important for him to stay hydrated.”
“Ay, sí, I will get it right away. Anything else, nena?” his mom answered.