Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  “Nag, nag, nag.”

  The playful smirk on his lips teased another curl of desire whisking through her.

  “I think you should let her know about your you know what,” she said, purposefully speaking in veiled words out of respect for his secret but not wanting to leave without letting him know she was in his corner. Even if it was in a different capacity than before. “It’s a great opportunity, Ale. I’m excited for you. Everyone will be excited about your exhibit. He’ll understand. Trust me. It takes time, but he will come around.”

  Alejandro’s expression sobered at her reference to his father.

  “I’m really happy for you, Ale,” she offered. “Bellísima’s lucky they’re getting to show your work.”

  He dipped his head in thanks, though his joy had dimmed. “I appreciate it.”

  “And you’re lucky that you’ll get to work with me mañana.” She winked, pleased at his bark of laughter as she sent him a loose-fingered wave and slipped out of the Mirandas’ yard.

  Inside her car, she lowered the windows and put the AC on high to cool off the interior; then, using the Bluetooth connection, she dialed Sara. As the phone rang, she hoped she’d made the right move by asking for Alejandro’s help. Prayed that they could bank their lingering attraction for the short time he was here. Because clearly it wasn’t extinguished.

  On this tiny island, with parents as close as theirs, running into him was unavoidable. So, attempting some kind of friendly-ish relationship their moms accepted as the best outcome they could get was better than the stilted, uncomfortable conversations they’d had when he first arrived.

  But getting close to him again, relishing the rush of desire when his strong arms wrapped around her and his heady scent made her woozy with desire. Giving into the thrum of a need long unquenched . . .

  That would be unwise and foolish. If also temptingly delicious.

  Chapter 10

  “You don’t know how relieved I was to get your call yesterday,” Sara Vance told Alejandro as they made the short drive from his parents’ house to Higgs Beach and the White Street Pier early the next morning.

  Seated next to Luis Navarro’s fiancée, with the front passenger seat in her Toyota RAV4 pushed as far back as possible to accommodate his injured leg, Alejandro cradled his trusty Canon in his lap. For the first time since his accident, he felt a little like his old self again. Pre–nose dive off the waterfall. Back when he didn’t have to work so hard to avoid his dad. When regrets of what might have been were relegated to late at night or weak moments . . . not 24-7 with reminders all around him.

  He smoothed his thumb over the camera’s backside, saying hello to an old friend. The familiar itch to explore his location, determine the perfect spot with the right angles and lighting, and start capturing images started at his fingertips, then spread up his arms, into his chest. Invigorating him.

  “I’m happy to help,” he told Sara, eyeing the lush vegetation along the south side of Atlantic Boulevard. Mother Nature’s early-morning sun peeked across the sky, soft and hazy. The ideal lighting for outdoor photography. “Actually, like Anamaría mentioned, I’m relieved to get out of the house and work on something productive.”

  Sara flashed a friendly smile, one that had earned “likes” from millions the world over. Her classic features, blue-green eyes, wavy blond tresses, and runner’s physique gave her a girl-next-door appeal that had many companies paying for her to use and promote their products or services.

  But Alejandro knew she was more than a pretty face. Sara Vance also possessed the keen mind of a successful entrepreneur. One who’d gone from small-time fashion and beauty blogger in college to sought-after social media influencer to the designer of her own clothing line. More important, to him at least, over the past year she had taken Anamaría under her wing, providing guidance and introducing her to contacts that were helping build the AM Fitness brand.

  The irony of this outgoing people person who lived much of her life in front of the camera and connecting with individuals across the globe being engaged to the strong but silent, most introverted of the Navarro brothers wasn’t lost on Alejandro. According to Enrique, Sara and Luis balanced each other, somehow fitting perfectly together.

  If he still believed in soul mates and happily-ever-after, Alejandro guessed Luis and Sara would be the poster couple. For their sake, he hoped so.

  Sara slowed her SUV as they approached the three-way stop where Atlantic Boulevard intersected with White Street. Off to their left the long concrete pier jutted out over the ocean.

  “I have to admit, you did cross my mind when I first hung up with Craig yesterday. But with your injury and . . . given your history with Anamaría . . .”

  Sara’s blue-green gaze cut to him. He was sure she knew all about his and Anamaría’s breakup. And since she had only heard the Navarro side of the story, more than likely she viewed him as the one to blame. Family loyalty was strong with the Navarros. He respected that. Even with him being on the wrong side of it when it came to protecting their Princesa.

  To his surprise, though, Sara’s watchful gaze didn’t contain condemnation like his father’s. More like caution, as if she was reserving judgment until she drew her own conclusion about him. Encouraged by her attitude, he opted to trust Luis Navarro’s judgment and trust Sara with the truth.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about my history with Anamaría. For what it’s worth, I’m excited for her and the opportunities she’s worked to attain. She asked for my help, as a friend. No way would I or could I refuse. Because of our history. But also because I want what’s best for her.”

  A car behind them beeped, and Sara eased away from the stop sign, heading toward the public parking spots along Higgs Beach.

  She arched a light brown brow, her pensive glances between him and the road a little unnerving. “That’s very commendable of you.”

  Having just met her, Alejandro couldn’t tell if she was being serious or condescending.

  “This isn’t the type of shoot you’d usually book,” Sara continued. “More small potatoes when compared to the magazine covers and inspiring cultural and geographical photography you’re known for.”

  “Nah.” He waved off her flattery. “Every job has potential. Honestly, when I’m on location, some of my favorite photographs are a result of me wandering the streets on my own time. Interacting with locals.”

  Sara pulled into an open parking spot by the West Martello Tower, the unfinished Civil War–era fort that housed the Key West Garden Club’s botanical gardens. The redbrick structure, known for its archways and paths, lush gardens, and gorgeous views overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, was often a sought-after location for weddings and private events. Back in high school, one of Anamaría’s girlfriends had held her quinceañera here.

  Staring at the brick building’s façade, Alejandro could easily picture the moment Anamaría had stepped into her familia’s living room wearing that figure-skimming mermaid-cut sleeveless red gown. Her dark hair a mass of curls gathered in a fancy updo. He’d nearly swallowed his tongue, his hormones going haywire. Nearly embarrassing himself in front of her parents.

  Thinking about their up close and personal encounter on his front porch yesterday, it was clear that his body still reacted the same way to hers.

  Alejandro’s gaze scanned the public beach off to the right, one of his adolescent playgrounds. Like countless other spots around the island, this place held so many memories of him and Anamaría.

  How many times had they sat at one of the concrete picnic tables sharing a sandwich from Sandy’s Café? Most Friday nights they’d hung out here with Enrique and a group of friends until ten o’clock rolled around and the cops shooed them off. Across the street a little farther down, at Astro City Park, he and Anamaría had shared their first kiss. July Fourth weekend, the summer before their sophomore year.

  “Well then, if local pictures are your personal specialty, I guess White Street Pier and the beach are great
locations.” Sara’s observation chased away his memories, bringing him back to the here and now.

  “Definitely,” he agreed. “And I can’t get more local than a born-and-raised Conch as my subject.”

  The same girl who had starred in much of his early work.

  They’d almost come full circle. Unfortunately, true to form, this circle would continue the same way, with him leaving to find the next great photograph that would fill the void inside him.

  “Well, one Conch and one Malibu surfer,” Sara reminded him, her eyes alight with excitement. “East and West Coast combining in social media greatness. Or at least, that’s our goal.”

  Yes, it was, Alejandro reminded himself, despite his unease. He was all for Anamaría expanding her business, pleased he’d be helping her do that today. But he wasn’t exactly interested in watching her “combine” with the golden boy surfer turned Iron Man triathlete who had been splashed across the cover of Men’s Health with his surfboard last year.

  From what Sara had shared over the phone yesterday, and Alejandro’s own poking around the internet had confirmed, Brandon was considered by many to be a stand-up guy who took his personal training and work seriously. However, he also knew how to have a good time, usually with an equally fit, strikingly beautiful woman on his arm.

  The thought of Anamaría becoming the next Brandon Lawson “it” girl had Alejandro squeezing his Canon in a death grip. Just as quickly as his jealousy reared its green-eyed head, though, he realized the folly of his reaction.

  Anamaría was smart enough not to fall for a player, if that’s what Brandon turned out to be. And if his good-guy reputation proved legit, then he was a better man than Ale was.

  Either way, his pride and joy did not deserve to be manhandled in petty anger. This camera had gifted him with moments and memories that aided him in forgetting others that haunted him.

  Accomplishments like nabbing the National Geographic cover last fall with the elephant sanctuary series that Lulu had marveled over while cuddling on his lap. Meaningful experiences like befriending the Costa Rican villagers who welcomed him into their homes and shared the humility and spiritual meaning behind their simple way of life via the article in AFAR magazine.

  His momentous trip to Cuba, where he had connected with familia he’d never known, walked the streets where his abuelos had lived and loved, and visited his father’s childhood home.

  “Let me grab your wheelchair, and we can head down the pier.” Sara pushed open the driver’s side door and grabbed her woven shoulder bag off the console.

  “We can leave it. I’ll be fine using the crutches.”

  The look she shot him over her shoulder clearly screamed, Yeah, right!

  “Really, I’m good,” he assured her.

  Sara bent down to peer back into the car at him. “Your mom and my future mother-in-law will not let me hear the end of it if you overdo things today. I’m not chancing that. Not to mention Anamaría already warned me to stay on guard if you’re tiring or show any sign of discomfort. So, I’ll wheel you down the pier and you can switch to crutches if you need to once we get started.”

  “Scary how quickly a Cuban mami can have you bending to her will, even when she’s not around. Isn’t it?”

  “My Mexican nanny could give them a run for their money. I miss her every day she’s been gone. Word to the wise, be thankful for your mom, even when she’s pestering you.” With a raised brow, I- know-what-I’m-talking-about look at him, Sara closed her door and moved around to the back hatch where she had stored his wheelchair.

  Moments later, the bag with his backup Canon and several lenses rested on his lap as Sara pushed him past the African Cemetery commemorating the enslaved men, women, and children who lost their lives in 1860, then through the AIDS Memorial that ushered visitors onto the long pier.

  Out on the water, the sun floated like a big beach ball bobbing on the horizon, bleeding varying shades of orange and red across a sky dressed in hues from the purple and blue spokes of the color wheel.

  “Anamaría and Brandon should be here any minute,” Sara told him. “I asked her to pick him up this morning, so that you and I could have a little more time to chat. Without her.”

  The wary note in Sara’s voice had Alejandro angling sideways to peer up at her over the frames of his Carreras.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said. “This is AM’s first major sponsorship. None of us . . . Luis, Enrique, Carlos, Gina, and I—”

  ¡Carajo! His gut clenched as she rattled off the names of all the Navarro siblings and Carlos’s wife, apparently all in group force mode with Sara as their spokesperson.

  The pan tostado con huevo his mami had insisted he choke down before leaving the house, despite his assurances that he usually ate something lighter than the toasted Cuban bread and fried eggs before a shoot, settled like a rock in his stomach.

  “—none of us want your involvement to derail her,” Sara continued, “or the positive step that today should represent for her and AM Fitness. Enrique assures us that you wouldn’t. Frankly, his threat to kick your ass if you hurt her holds little weight given your current condition.”

  “I’d still take him,” Alejandro complained, settling into the wheelchair’s backrest with a huff.

  Sara actually laughed, as if he were joking. “I’m not getting in the middle of your male posturing. It happens often enough with Luis and his brothers. Anyway, Anamaría seems to think the two of you have buried the proverbial hatchet. And Luis . . .” Sara stopped pushing the wheelchair and looked down at him, a big sister’s concerned warning in her serious expression. “Well, I’m sure you remember how protective Luis is of his loved ones. The same goes with me.”

  Alejandro nodded, coming to see why Anamaría was a fan of her soon-to-be sister-in-law. Sara had her back, like all the Navarros did for each other.

  “I assure you,” he told Sara, “there’s nothing to worry about on my end. Enrique might talk a lot of crap about a lot of things, but he’s right about one, I want what’s best for Anamaría. Happy to have my Canon in my hands again. So, in the butchered words of Lebron James when he shocked the world and thrilled everyone in the 305 area by joining the Miami Heat, ‘I’m taking my talents to Higgs Beach’ with the intent on using my skills to help team AM Fitness. You have my word.”

  The friendly smile he recognized from the pics on Sara’s Instagram feed greeted his promise. “Good answer. It makes my job as protector much easier.”

  “She doesn’t need protecting from me.” Hell, after yesterday, he was beginning to think it was him who needed protecting from her.

  I’ve missed you. Shit, he still couldn’t believe he’d dropped that stink bomb after she linebacker tackled him and nearly knocked him on his ass on the front porch.

  Worse, his loose-lips admission hadn’t even fazed her.

  He, on the other hand, had fallen asleep and woken up thinking about the curve of her butt cheek cradled perfectly in his palm. Her full breasts cushioned against his chest. Her breath warm on his neck and the familiar, citrusy scent of her shampoo teasing his memories. His body so hard and ready and aching, no amount of alone time in the shower could satisfy him.

  Tack on the idiocy of him waxing poetic as if he’d been pining for her all this time. Thought I caught a whiff of it once at an open-air market . . . qué carajo era eso?

  Lust short-circuiting his brain. That’s what the hell that was.

  “If you ask me, you two have some unfinished business,” Sara said.

  Alejandro blinked with surprise at her conclusion. Relieved his sunglasses hid the truth—he agreed with her.

  “But we’re all professionals here,” she continued, not waiting for his response to her prediction about him and Anamaría. “Luis also reminded us that we’ve all made stupid decisions in the past, himself included.”

  Alejandro gestured to the three-ring-circus contraption on his leg with a grimace. “My latest among many. Some with regret.”

/>   Sara’s head tilted to the side, as if she was considering him. “I have to admit, I might come to like you.” She grinned, then wagged a finger at him in a move reminiscent of his Cuban mami when she lectured, “Just remember, if it comes down to a choice between you or Anamaría—”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “You’re Team AM, all the way.”

  She shrugged her pale shoulders, bared by her yellow sundress straps and, he made a note to ask if she had slathered on sunblock. “That’s how we Navarros roll.”

  Yes, they did. All their generations looked out for each other.

  Too bad the same couldn’t be said with his familia. Not when it came to him and his dad. Alejandro had been home for almost two weeks. In that time, he and his papi hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since that first night.

  Sara pushed him the rest of the way down the length of the pier, stopping once they reached the top of the nearly twenty-foot wide compass painted in the center of the wide rectangular area. “Where do you want to set up?”

  Alejandro scanned their surroundings. Off to the right two older gentlemen leaned against the waist-high concrete balustrade, a brown tackle box resting between them on the top rail, fishing poles in hand, a blue cooler at their feet. An older man and woman in shorts and matching “Life Is Better in the Keys” tees waved hello as they pedaled their rental bikes around the perimeter, then made their way back down the pier.

  “Let’s claim this spot.” He pointed straight ahead, dead center between the two sides. “That way I can angle to get the open ocean and watercolor skies as a backdrop, without the sun shading out Anamaría or Brandon. You mind posing for a few test shots?”

  “Sure!” Sara padded over, then hoisted herself up to sit on the two-foot-wide concrete railing. Knees bent, arms wrapped underneath them to keep her dress from blowing up in the wind, she tipped her face to the sky. “It’s a gorgeous morning, isn’t it?”

  “Great conditions for photography,” he answered, already peering through his camera lens, the rhythmic whirr with each press of the button a sound as naturally a part of him as the beat of his heart.