“Are you just now figuring that out?” she joked, pleased by the laughter that crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Only, don’t go talking to my familia. Too many of my sisters have big mouths. No telling what they’d share that could tarnish my image.”
“Hmm. Now I am intrigued.” Head tilted, he squinted, his forehead wrinkling as if he pondered a difficult question. “Which of your sisters do you think would spill first?”
“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh? Maybe I should go have a chat with Alberto,” she challenged, Galán’s playful teasing egging her on. “He’s been saddled with you since you were a pimply-faced teen. I’m sure he’s got some good dirt I wouldn’t mind getting under my nails for fun.”
She released her grip and moved to step around him, but Galán’s hand tightened over hers, drawing her to a halt. Cat shot him a coy look out of the corner of her eye.
He grinned. Not the practiced, camera-ready smile he flashed the paparazzi but a natural, relaxed, eyes-alight-with-pleasure grin she hadn’t seen before but found herself hoping she would more often.
“I have a better idea instead. Why don’t we focus on the songs I’ve selected for our set during the concert?” He tipped his head toward the coffee table and the sheet music strewn across its surface.
Our set.
Ay, how she relished the sound of that phrase.
“You mean the songs you’d like us both to consider, seeing as how this entails our mutual approval,” she corrected, pointedly not making it a question.
“I’m open to suggestions. But as you are well aware, I’ve got strong opinions, usually correct ones, about every detail that goes into my shows. Just like my albums.”
“Hello, pot. I’m kettle.”
Galán tipped his head back on a bark of laughter that should not have sent delicious thrills swirling through her. But it did.
Her palm glided over his as she wiggled her hand free and made herself step away from him.
He followed her to the coffee table, stopping alongside her, close enough that his arm lightly brushed hers before he edged to his right.
Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, she bent to riffle through the sheet music. All duets: two old classics; several of his own hits; and an original of hers, “No Me Olvides,” the sentimental, aptly titled don’t-forget-me duet she had written for the Battle.
It would be the first of her songs ever performed by anyone other than her and her sisters. This time, by one of her biggest idols, onstage, in front of a crowd of thousands in her hometown. With her accompanying him at the mic.
Talk about a sueño come true!
Goose bumps chased each other up her forearms beneath the sleeves of her light-pink, open-front tweed jacket. Her shoulders shimmied as an excited chill tiptoed across them.
Of course, “No Me Olvides” was also a song she and Galán had butted heads over during Battle rehearsals. Given the short time frame her sisters and the other band they had been paired with were given to learn and perfect the new piece, Cat had deliberately kept the musical arrangement simple.
Galán’s “some sections are rudimentary” comment when he first heard her song still rankled. His unsolicited advice that she learn the difference between criticism and a helpful critique, delivered in his brusque tone, had bugged her even more.
“Let’s start with this one.” She scooped up the pages for her ballad, then straightened. No use putting off the first potential disagreement of their partnership. “I’ll never forget how it brought the house down in the second round of the competition. Exactly as I predicted.”
Galán took the pages she held out to him, a dubious expression drawing up his dark brows.
“And it will do the same at the AT&T Center when the two of us perform it,” she claimed. Closing her eyes, she envisioned the crowd rising to their feet with boisterous cheers. Their chants for more bouncing off the rafters. Rapturous wonder at the very real possibility of her long-held dream coming true welled in her chest. Excitement crescendoed, spewing out in a rush of pride for her work. “Your fans are gonna love it! ‘No Me Olvides’ has the perfect ‘I burn, I pine, I perish’ angst that people—”
“The ‘I’ qué?”
The octave-raising “what” at the end of his question barely registered and she blinked up at him, her thoughts busy careening down the path leading to her song becoming a number-one hit.
“Uhhhh, you know. That I-burn-for-you, I-pine-for-you, I’ll-die-without-you feel?” His confused frown deepened, and she rushed on, fed by her enthusiasm. “The kind that has fans clutching their chests. Overcome by emotion as they relive their own lost love. That first crush who broke their heart. The one that got away. The soul mate they haven’t met yet.”
“Mira pa’llá.” Patricio slowly stretched out the words like an “aha” and shook the sheet music at her with a cheesy, full-of-himself smirk.
“Look at what?”
“Who would have guessed that underneath that ambitious, rebellious, kiss-my-ass attitude, you’re secretly hiding a mushy romantic. Burning, pining, and perishing for true love to sweep her off her feet and ride off with her into the sunset.”
“¡Por favor!” She scoffed and snatched the sheet music from him. “I can ride my own horse, thank you very much. But you tell me, why is being a romantic a bad thing? Why is it that so many men and their machismo criticize women for being too emotional?”
“Hold on, that’s not what I meant.” Galán held his palms out as if to ward off the verbal barrage he sensed was imminent.
“Like feeling is a bad thing and it somehow makes us the weaker sex?”
“Catalina, you don’t—”
“I’ve spent years studying my craft and the industry. I’m good at what I do because emotion—anger, heartache, over-the-moon love, knee-buckling fear, and everything in between—bleeds from me onto the page.”
Outrage surged through her, spawned by years of dealing with those who sought to silence or dismiss her, her sisters, and other female mariachis.
“That’s what has people humming my songs long after Mariachi Las Nubes has played them at a gig. It’s what will make your album go platinum. And eventually, it’ll win me a Grammy.”
Her ire at full-steam-ahead level, Cat spun on her bootheel and stomped to the piano. Sinking onto the bench, she plunked the sheets of paper onto the piano’s music shelf.
Galán’s nostrils flared with a heavy exhalation.
Cat shot him a pointed let’s-get-to-work glare, then lifted the fallboard and placed her fingers on the piano keys.
“This business isn’t always fair, Catalina, especially to women.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” she muttered.
“Like you, I have high expectations. For myself and those I collaborate with. I don’t give in or give up easily. Many rely on me and my career for their livelihood. That’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. My success is theirs, too. So, in this partnership of ours, I will question and critique and push you to do better. Even when you think it’s unfair.”
He stalked closer, and her spine stiffened.