Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  “Look, all I’m saying is”—Alejandro gave a lazy one-shoulder shrug, as if his version of Cuban mami matchmaking wasn’t weirding her out—“two people with common careers, working long hours closely together. It’s been known to happen.”

  “Is that how you and your wife connected?” The question burned her tongue as she voiced it.

  “Morgan?” Alejandro’s wide eyes told of his surprise at Anamaría’s blunt inquiry. That made two of them.

  Worse, hearing him say the other woman’s name hurt far more than it still should. Over the years, similar questions about him and Morgan Ritter, the statuesque model he had married shortly after breaking up with Anamaría, had clamored in her head. Begging for answers. Anamaría had remained in the dark, refusing to ask them. Refusing to even Google the woman.

  “Uh, yes. Morgan and I met on a shoot. In Italy. Right after . . . well, a few months after you and I . . . after we ended.” He spoke haltingly, as if fumbling for the right words. But his intense gaze never wavered from hers. “The relationship snowballed. Then, it, uh . . . as I’m guessing you already know . . . it melted fairly quickly.”

  A troubled expression stamped his face over the demise of his marriage. Remorse for allowing her jealousy to infect the positive experience they had shared together flared in Anamaría’s chest. At the same time, both her heart and mind still struggled to make sense of how he could have forgotten about her and moved on so quickly.

  “I guess I never understood how—were you—” She broke off, her eyes searching his, desperate for answers that would assuage her own anguish. The questions she had always wanted to ask remained stuck in her throat. Except for the one she hoped was true but whose confirmation would hurt the most.

  “Were you happy with her? At least for a time?”

  Alejandro heaved a sigh, his gaze moving to squint out at the open water behind her. A strange mix of regret and acceptance settled in his dark eyes. “Morgan wasn’t the problem in our marriage. We both acted rashly, jumping into something way too soon. But, ultimately, the problem was me.”

  His answer gave rise to more questions. With Brandon and Sara making their way over, now wasn’t the time to ask them.

  “You’ve got something great going here,” Alejandro said. “I’m happy for you, Princesa. You deserve it.”

  “Ay!” She scuffed at the sand near his left crutch, purposefully missing to avoid knocking it out from under him. “No one calls me that anymore unless they want some trouble!”

  A shadow of his cocky grin answered her playful threat. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You should be. I can take you. Especially now.”

  He laughed at her, the rich sound drawing the attention of the two women nearby.

  Anamaría didn’t join in, though. She was too busy grappling with his cryptic revelation about his marriage and the turbulent emotions their conversation had churned up inside her.

  “You two ready to grab lunch?” Brandon asked as he and Sara reached them.

  Sara hooked an arm with one of Anamaría’s. “After all this hard work, even I’m famished.”

  Anamaría looked at Sara, a silent Are you okay? passing between them. In recovery with an eating disorder she had privately struggled with since high school, Sara rarely brought up her lack of interest in food. She hugged Anamaría’s arm tighter and gave her a reassuring nod.

  “Any interest in Italian food at Salute?” Alejandro asked, adjusting his crutches under his armpits.

  Anamaría grabbed his backpack for him, then the group began the trek back to their vehicles.

  “Actually, a little bird named Sara told me that your parents own the best Cuban restaurant on the island.” Brandon gave his signature head toss, shifting his bangs out of his eyes as they walked through the sand. “I haven’t had decent Cuban food in ages. How ’bout we grab a bite there to celebrate a successful shoot?”

  No one else probably saw it, but Anamaría didn’t miss Alejandro’s full-body wince. The absolute last place he’d go to celebrate was his dad’s restaurant. According to Enrique, Ale hadn’t even stepped foot in the place since his return.

  Sara, who knew the condensed version of the Mirandas’ familia saga, slid a nervous glance at Alejandro, then Anamaría, before suggesting, “Are you sure you don’t want seafood? Fresh from the ocean?”

  “If that’s what you prefer, I don’t mind,” Brandon answered, confirming his easygoing personality.

  They reached the sidewalk that wove around Higgs Beach, and Alejandro stopped in front of the restaurant’s low fence to shake the sand off the rubber grippers on the bottoms of his crutches.

  “Actually, you know how interested my mom is in your Instagram presence.” He cut a quick glance at Anamaría, then back at his crutches as he stomped them on the walkway one last time. “Our moms are so nosy, I’m sure mine already knows all about Brandon and would love to meet him. I’m betting she’d love to hear what you two have planned together, don’t you think?”

  Sara laughed at his reasoning and Brandon chimed in with his approval.

  Out on the road, two mopeds puttered by as Ale, Sara, and Brandon waited for Anamaría to respond. Sure, going to Miranda’s might appease their mothers’ inquisitive nature, but it also meant seeing his father on his own turf. The same turf Alejandro had been kicked out of the night before he left for good.

  “Are you sure you don’t need to head home and elevate your leg? I can fill the moms and the rest of your family in later,” she asked, giving him a believable out while tiptoeing around the topic of his dad.

  Alejandro surprised her by shaking his head at her suggestion. “Mami’s been bugging me to come for lunch since I got back. Plus, Papi will be pleased to see you.”

  Uh-huh. She understood Alejandro’s subtext. Victor Miranda would be happy to see her, just not his son. Which made it even more incomprehensible why Alejandro would agree to join them.

  * * *

  What the hell had he been thinking by agreeing to join Anamaría and the others for lunch at the one place he’d done everything he could to avoid since high school? Right up until he’d been banished from the premises by his father as a graduation present.

  Elbow propped on the inside window ledge in Sara’s RAV4, Alejandro cradled his forehead in his palm. This had the potential of turning into a shitshow.

  Of epic proportions.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” Sara eyed him with worry as she waited for a van to pass them going east on Bertha, her left blinker flashing her intent to turn into Miranda’s.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled.

  She pulled into the parking lot that ran the length of the restaurant’s side wall. Still painted the same tan shade it had always been.

  Midway down the parking lot Alejandro sat up and leaned forward to peer through the front windshield. The paint job might still be the same, but apparently his dad had expanded, adding more indoor seating in the back of the building. When had that happened?

  “Looks pretty crowded,” Sara mused.

  Barely eleven and the spots were already filling up. Good sign for business.

  Bad sign for someone not interested in airing familia drama in a crowd of locals and tourists.

  Which begged for a straight answer to the same why question that had echoed in his brain seconds after he’d convinced Anamaría this was a good idea.

  ¿Por qué? the voice of reason he too often ignored asked again.

  He could take the easy way out and say it was to please his mother, who’d been harping on him to show his respect by visiting their beloved restaurant.

  Or that he wanted to avoid the awkwardness of refusing Brandon’s request to eat at the local hot spot his familia owned. But awkward would definitely describe the potential scene his papi might make when he spotted Alejandro.

  ¡Carajo! Alejandro dug two fingers at the spot between his eyebrows and rubbed at the dull ache intensifying with each taken parking spot Sara passed
. Peeking at the side rearview mirror out his window, he watched Anamaría’s Pilot following. Brandon’s wide grin flashed, his hands gesturing with whatever story he was regaling her with.

  That’s why Alejandro was here.

  Because he was and always would be a sucker for the girl who’d stolen, then broken his heart. Though she’d done so only because, he was slowly coming to understand, he had selfishly pushed her to dream his dreams, not her own.

  The crushing weight of guilt pressed on Alejandro’s chest.

  All these years, he’d thought of himself as the one who had been rejected. Blaming her for the demise of their relationship. Channeling his anger and hurt and frustration into his career. Pushing the boundaries in search of something undefinable always just beyond his grasp.

  He loved his job. He was fucking good at it. Brilliant, actually.

  But this morning, with Anamaría as his main subject like in his early days, a weird, kind of carefree joy he hadn’t felt in ages buoyed him. Reminded him why he had initially fallen in love with the unique view through his Canon lens.

  Once she got over her initial nerves, Anamaría was a natural in front of the camera. Her charisma and charm was palpable. The trust she placed in him by allowing herself to be vulnerable humbled him.

  Today, he had soaked up her energy, allowing their emotional connection to feed his vision in a way he never let himself do with others. Not even with Morgan, who’d been more dear friend than wife. Something he should have admitted to Anamaría when she brought up his marriage out on the beach. Surprising the hell out of him.

  He owed her a better explanation. Just not with others around to potentially interrupt or in the middle of wrapping up an important shoot that should be a boon for her business.

  Which brought Alejandro back to why he was sitting in Sara’s car, agreeing to enter the one place in Key West he’d rather avoid.

  There was value in having a power player like Brandon Lawson in Anamaría’s corner alongside Sara. Showing the guy a good time while he was here would benefit Anamaría. So, even if it meant walking into the lion’s den, Alejandro would do it. For her.

  “Here we go.” Sara pulled between the white lines of a spot near the dumpster in back and cut the engine. Anamaría’s SUV angled in beside them.

  If luck was on his side, his mami’s relief at seeing him would outweigh his dad’s resentment. Big if.

  A long sigh, weighty with his resignation, escaped before he could stop it.

  “You and I don’t have to go in,” Sara offered, compassion pooling in her blue-green eyes. “You’ve been on your feet for a while. Anamaría and Brandon can stay, and I’ll drive you home.”

  He shook his head, ignoring the dull throb in his leg that matched the one pounding behind his eyes.

  Anamaría tapped her knuckle on his window, startling him. She grinned and opened his car door. “Brandon’s grabbing your wheelchair while I help you—”

  “I’m not using that thing here.”

  “It would be better—”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” He already felt like a wounded pup, crawling back with his tail between his legs. No way was someone going to push him inside Miranda’s when he could damn well walk.

  She huffed out an irritated breath, one fist jammed on a cocked hip. “Ale, you were on your crutches the entire time we took the photos at Higgs Beach.”

  “And I’ll be sitting inside the entire time we’re here. So we’re even,” he countered.

  “That’s not funny.” She scowled, her repetitive toe-tapping warning him that her irritation was edging toward pissed off. “Your injury and recovery are not a joke.”

  “Do you see me laughing?”

  She growled. Like actually growled, as she shook her head. “Who is the professional medic here? And who needs to stop being so freaking contrary?”

  Fire flashed in the specks of gold in her hazel eyes, and he realized she wasn’t going to back down unless he gave her a good reason.

  Alejandro turned to Sara, who watched their exchange with interest from the driver’s seat. “Would you and Brandon please go inside and let my mother know we’ll need a table for four?”

  The woman he hoped might eventually become a friend, like her fiancé, looked from him to the doorway, where Anamaría now loomed.

  Anamaría ducked into the small space between him and the car’s dashboard. Her ponytail braid, fashioned with her deft fingers in between takes on the beach, swung down to bump against his thigh, mimicking the smack he felt certain she wanted to give him upside the head.

  The white and deep purple AllFit windbreaker she wore over her matching sports bra had been zipped up halfway, drawing his attention to the swell of her breasts straining against the stretchy material. Her tropical shampoo mixing with the earthy scent of a morning spent in the Florida humidity tempted him to press his nose to her neck and breathe in her unique essence. Instead he teased his simmering desire for her by trailing his gaze past the sun-kissed bronze skin on her chest, to her full lips, aggravation-flushed cheeks, and gold-flecked eyes.

  “AM?” Sara asked.

  The two women stared at each other, apparently exchanging some kind of silent conversation, because Sara ultimately nodded, then pulled her keys out of the ignition.

  “Fine, we’ll head inside. You”—Sara’s tone held a warning as she placed a cool hand on Alejandro’s forearm—“thank you for earlier today. But remember, when it comes down to it, many of us here are team—”

  “Navarro,” he finished. “I know and respect that.”

  The secretive smile that had helped make Sara the sought-after social media maven she had become softened her no-nonsense expression. “And you.” Sara pointed at Anamaría. “Give the guy a break; he did us both a huge favor.”

  “Yes, and I’m trying to return that favor by looking out for his obstinate ass,” Anamaría complained.

  Sara’s light laughter trailed off as she slid out and closed her door. She motioned Brandon over and then led him down the walkway between the parking spots and the building toward the back entrance.

  As soon as the pair disappeared inside, Anamaría backed out of Alejandro’s front seat space, leaving her citrusy scent behind. He placed his right foot on the ground outside, then carefully lifted his left leg and swiveled to face the open door. Anamaría bent forward to help him, but he waved her off, placing his weight on his right leg and pushing off the door frame to stand.

  “You are so hardheaded,” she complained.

  “Hello, pot, I’m kettle,” he threw back.

  The remark earned him a glare. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow, then finger-combed his hair back with a tired sigh. She was right, his leg hurt like a bitch. Rest would do him well, but he’d bite his tongue till it bled before admitting so. He would see this lunch through for Anamaría.

  “Look, I get what you’re trying to do,” he told her.

  “Oh really? You get it, but still won’t listen to my medically trained advice?”

  “Fine, you’re right. I should get this damn leg elevated. Definitely take another over-the-counter pain pill, which I will once we get inside.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Anamaría stuck a finger in her ear as if she were clearing it out. “Repeat that first part again, please? I think I misheard. I’m what?”

  He hiked a brow with censure at her exaggerated dumbfounded expression. “Now who’s being a smartass?”

  “Takes one to know one.” She tilted her head in a defiant slant, sending her braid swaying behind her. “Now, if I’m right, why the hell are you giving me such a hard time?”

  He stalled for a few seconds, hating the need to share the ego-bruising truth. Unfortunately, her arched brow told him she wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

  “Coño,” he muttered, scratching the scruff on his jaw. “Coming here isn’t something I take lightly. You know that. So, I’ll be damned if I’m going to face my dad and his inevitable hostility from a f
ucking baby stroller. Unable to stand up to him.”

  Both the fight and the laughter drained out of Anamaría. Compassion swept in to take their place, tipping her lips in a sad frown. “First, it’s not a baby stroller. It’s a—”

  “I know what the hell it’s called. Cut me some slack, okay?” He leaned back against the car for support.

  “Fine, have it your way.” Anamaría eyed him warily but didn’t say anything about his leg when she finally spoke. No, she picked another, more difficult topic. “It’s been two weeks almost. Have you and your dad not made any move to find common ground?”

  Alejandro shook his head. “He won’t. It has to come from me.”

  “And have you tried?”

  He rubbed at the tired muscles along the back of his neck, playing it safe by giving her the easiest reason why he was here. Rather than the impossible one.

  “Right now, I’m trying to be part of the Key West welcome crew Sara requested when she gave me the lowdown on Brandon and his tie to AllFit.”

  “What?” Anamaría’s face scrunched with a confused frown. “Sara asked—Ale, you don’t have to do this. You’ve done enough already.” She gestured behind him at the restaurant. The place that was more his papi’s pride and joy than he would ever be. “This is a big ask I can’t make.”

  “You didn’t ask. Brandon did, the jerk.”

  Her lips twitched with a smile.

  “Plus, this gets my mother off my back. She’s been pushing me to give in and show respect for my dad by coming here. Between that and the two of you stressing out about my recovery.” He slapped a hand to his forehead in exaggerated horror. “Carajo, you women and your nagging, me van a volver loco.”

  “Ha! We’re driving you crazy. Does the term bird-hunting cliff diver ring a bell?” she teased, her grin breaking free to flash brightly.

  She took a baby step toward him, reaching out to swat playfully at his sternum. Her hand lingered to caress his side. The light touch burned through his button-down as if she had brushed his bare skin.