The arrogant megastar ignored his producer. Instead, Galán’s penetrating stare remained glued on her. “You are aware that this is a huge opportunity for you, Catalina.”
A statement, not a question.
An impassive mask skimmed the angles of Galán’s straight nose, square jaw, and sharp cheekbones, but the piercing gleam in his black-coffee eyes snared her with its challenge.
Her stomach muscles clenched, squelching the nervous jitters intent on knocking her off balance.
Feigning nonchalance, she relaxed against her cushioned chair back. The plush leather creaked in protest, as if calling bullshit on her tough-girl charade. The spurt of uncertainty inside her threatened to morph into a fire hose, and she fought to tamp it down.
She knew what this was: the age-old fear of not being good enough that plagued many in their rejection-filled industry. Typically, she had no trouble silencing self-doubt.
But from the moment she had parked her used sedan, with its leaky moonroof and temperamental AC, in front of the posh residence Padua had rented for Galán during his stay through the Battle and his concert, squelching her awe had proven more difficult than normal. How could it not, when faced with the air of wealth and stature that permeated every room in the place—a mansion that probably cost more than the entire Casa Capuleta property that housed her familia’s community center; the two floors of apartments above it, where her parents and younger sisters lived; and the large courtyard in the back.
Sitting at this ostentatious dining set, which boasted thick glass atop oversize claw feet ornately carved and brushed with a gold patina, she faced two of the biggest names in the mariachi industry. As if that wasn’t nerve-racking enough, the insidious voice from her childhood, the one that harped in her head that she wasn’t enough, had managed to grab a bullhorn to blast its deflating message at an earsplitting volume.
Rather than cower, Cat met Galán’s challenging stare and channeled the negative energy churning through her into fuel, feeding her desire to prove everyone who had ever doubted her, or any female mariachi, wrong.
“This is an opportunity most singer-songwriters would grab with both hands,” Galán pressed when she didn’t respond to his earlier taunt. “Without hesitation.”
“It’s safe to say that I am not like most singer-songwriters. If I was, I doubt we’d be having this conversation. Nor would Padua be offering me this contract.”
“Confidence. Arrogance. There’s a fine line between the two.”
“I’m walking that line along with one of the best,” she countered, tipping her head toward him.
“Much of this arrogance is hard-earned.”
“And the rest?”
George sputter-laughed, quickly turning it into a cough he covered with a fist. His gold wedding ring winked under the chandelier’s light, as if it, too, found Cat’s cheeky retort humorous.
Again Galán arched a dark brow in that smoldering expression he had mastered. Those mesmerizing bedroom eyes, combined with his angular jaw and full lips, sun-kissed bronze skin and wavy black hair itching to be finger-combed, had been the impetus for so many of her adolescent and young-adult dreams. Tingles of awareness quickened her pulse. Cat ignored them, eyeing him expectantly.
“Lucky gene pool,” he finally answered. “Yours?”
“Blood, sweat, and tears. And a long-lasting red lip stain.”
A corner of Galán’s full mouth twitched with amusement. “Lip stain, huh? Who knew it was the key to greatness.”
Ay, the infuriating man and his propensity for toying with her.
It spoke of his Texas-wide ego. Backed up by his array of awards, number-one hits, packed stadiums, and countless endorsements.
But as hardheaded as he might be, he’d been a fair—if pushy—mentor to her and her sisters during the competition. Working with him, learning from him . . . she had hoped doing well in the Battle would get her boot in the door she’d been banging her head against for years now. But actually getting her songs on Patricio Galán’s next album would kick the freaking door down.
And yet she knew—to the marrow of her bones, she knew—if she didn’t stand up to him, go toe to toe without flinching, he wouldn’t respect her.
Worse, she wouldn’t respect herself.
Tapping a finger on the edge of the contract sandwiched between them, Cat sat up straight. “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you. Either of you.”
She looked from Galán to George, then back to the famed singer. Even though the record producer had wielded the contract on behalf of Padua, something told her that Galán had been the one to decide whether the document had been typed with her name or someone else’s.
He’d been the one to first approach her about writing songs for his next album, initially asking for “No Me Olvides,” the angsty, don’t-forget-me love song she had written for the competition.
A request she had turned down. Partly out of spite after his bald claim that her song would benefit from a few tweaks he had in mind. And partly because she’d been savvy enough to recognize a potential opening to something bigger. If he wanted one song, why not more?
Gracias a Dios her hunch had paid off.
“Call me arrogant or . . . carajo, even bitchy.” She swiped a hand in the air as if swatting at a bothersome fly. “That word gets thrown out far too often when a strong woman mariachi pushes back against patriarchal thinking. My own sisters teasingly call me the familia shrew because I refuse to pander to foolish machismo. I do whatever it takes to ensure Las Nubes is shown the respect we deserve. And while they might complain because I extend our rehearsals when we don’t have a song, transition, or the choreography exactly right, my sisters understand why. Because I want us to be the best. I want to be the best.”
Long-held dreams and desires and fears coalesced inside Cat like turbulent tornado winds, forcing the words from her in a rush of uncensored truth. Her heart pounding madly in her chest, she slid the contract closer, swiftly thumbed to the last page, then signed her name with a scrawling flourish and a triumphant grin.
“I want this. I’ve worked my ass off for this. You better believe I’ll give it my all. But I also expect anyone partnering with me to do the same. That blood, sweat, and tears I mentioned earlier will go into every note, every lyric I write. They have to. Because I want my work to resonate. To move people. To stand the test of time. And now that I’m working with you—no, now that you’re working with me—I expect the same in return.” She waggled the fancy pen at Galán, maintaining their game-of-chicken stare. “Sí, yo lo sé—actually, not just me . . . All of us know this is a major career boost for me. But I come to this table confident that having my musical talent and skills contributing to your album makes you equally as lucky.”
George’s bushy eyebrows rose with obvious surprise at her bold claim.
In an instant, the tornado wind that had whipped Cat into a frenzy suddenly died down, leaving her spent and on edge. Slightly dazed by how unceremoniously she had signed the contract. Worse, had she really just told El Príncipe . . . mariachi royalty . . . that he’d be lucky to work with her?
The potential ramifications of her brash actions settled over her like a prickly wool blanket. Itchy and uncomfortable.