Holiday Home Run
Page 13
Irked by his ability to so easily fall back into the banter they had once shared, pecking away at her steadfast resolve to keep him at a distance, Anamaría tugged off her medical gloves with a snap. She dropped them along with the other trash in the plastic waste bag she had brought, then jerked the ends closed in a tight knot.
“I’m not playing,” she argued, her frustration hitting its limit. “This isn’t funny. You didn’t have to witness the stark fear on your mom’s face when she told us about your accident.”
He blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden brusque tone. “I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t hear the tremble in your abuela’s voice when a group of us gathered at the Grotto after mass last Sunday to pray a healing rosary in your name.” Anger spiked and Anamaría gave it free rein, slamming her first aid kit shut. “Or try to answer Lulu’s questions about why her ‘buela was so sad.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“I don’t think you do. You never have.”
He reared back at her accusation, then winced in pain when his left leg slipped off the pillow propping it up.
Remorse flooded through her.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he ground out, pushing her hands away when she tried to help him readjust his position.
She should stop pushing.
Back away from this argument.
Leave before she said too much.
But the words she’d kept bottled inside flowed from her like a fire hydrant cranked open on the street. “It means, how do you think they felt that time you were nearly trampled by a bull in Spain? Or when you had that hang-gliding fiasco somewhere in South America?” She gripped the plastic kit tightly to keep herself from grabbing his shoulders and shaking some sense into him. “Or the moped accident in Thailand? Or, let me see, what else was there? Oh, the—”
“I said, I get it,” he repeated, impatience hammering his words.
“Are you sure?” She jerked her head, punctuating her question, and her ponytail swished over her shoulder.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Jaw tight, lips pressed in an angry line, he glared back at her.
“Do you really understand how your actions affect your loved ones?” Those who longed for him to come home. A group she no longer belonged to. For her own good.
Her question hung between them, challenging him with its truth.
Several tense seconds later, his shoulders slackened. His dark eyes shifted, becoming deep cesspools of disappointment and…was that regret?
No. No way would she let herself fall for that.
“I do,” he murmured. “Believe me, I understand how the people we love are often the ones who hurt us the most.”
Disillusion burned deep in her chest, scalding her heart. Questions screeched like bitter banshees in her head. Crying out for answers.
Why, in all these years, had there been no effort on his part to make peace with his father?
Why had he walked away and never looked back?
Why had he stayed away for so long?
Why hadn’t she, their comunidad, their island, not been enough as his home base? A safe port to drop anchor after his travels.
Why? Why? Why?
And yet, she refused to ask. Refused to care about the answers anymore. They didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.
Alejandro laid a hand over one of hers. She flinched, surprise catching her breath. A rough callous on his palm scraped her skin, heightening her awareness of his touch. Prickles of awareness spread into her wrist, moving slowly up her forearm. Heading straight toward her heart.
“I didn’t mean to cause them—anyone—any distress,” he said.
His face pinched with contrition, he squeezed her hand, as if willing her to believe him.
She tried. Part of her wanted to. But her sense of self-preservation wrapped around her like a forcefield, protecting her battered soul.
“I’m not the one you owe that apology to,” she said. “You and I were done a long time ago. We’ve both moved on. But your familia, that’s—”
“Ay, look at you two.” Señora Miranda swept into the room carrying a serving tray with two plates and bottles of water. “It makes my heart so happy to see you together again.”
Anamaría hopped off the bed as if she and Alejandro were still two teens, caught in the middle of something illicit.
“Mami, no te metes,” 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 sanwich, tambien, 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. 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, Sra. Miranda had counted on that.
His mom patted the edge of Alejandro’s bed, indicating Anamaría should sit.
Alejandro hitched a shoulder, the twist of his lips miming that was no use arguing.
As she stared at them, 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 often hard to outwit. Two teaming up?
This called for reinforcements. As in, her brothers and soon-to-be sister-in-law.
First, she’d have to finagle her way out of this impromptu, unwelcome lunch date with her hardheaded, sinfully sexy ex and his wanderlust soul.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRISCILLA OLIVERAS is a 2018 RWA® RITA®
double finalist who writes contemporary romance with a
Latinx flavor. Proud of her Puerto Rican–Mexican
heritage, she strives to bring authenticity to her novels
by sharing her Latino-American culture with her readers.
Since earning an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from
Seton Hill University, she also teaches an online
continuing education course entitled “Romance Writing”
for ed2go. Priscilla is a sports fan, a beach lover,
a half-marathon runner and a consummate traveler
who often practices the art of napping in her backyard
hammock. To follow along on her fun-filled and hectic
life, visit her on the web at prisoliveras.com
or on Twitter @prisoliveras.
THEIR PERFECT MELODY
With talent, heart, and ambition to spare,
the Fernandez sisters have each followed their own
unique path, even when it leads to surprising
destinations—in life and love . . .
Growing up, Lilí María Fernandez was affectionately
known as the family “wild child.” The life of the party,
she loved to dance, especially salsa, merengue,
and bachata, and often sang beside her father during
rehearsals for his trío group. But tragedy and loss
have drawn out Lilí’s caretaking side, compelling her
to become a victim’s advocate. These days, the special
rhythms of the past seem like a distant memory.
Until she meets Diego Reyes . . .
A police officer with the Chicago PD, Diego also has
a talent for playing classical Spanish guitar. And Lilí
soon finds herself inspired by his passion—for the music,
for her, and for their shared love of familia
and community. Can Diego reignite Lilí’s fun-loving
spirit, persuade her to balance work and pleasure—
and embrace her wild side once more?