Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  “Huh? You mean, an iguana?”

  “No, it’s my tibia that’s banged up, not my head.” The corners of his wide mouth curved in a teasing grin she nearly found herself returning.

  “An iguaca,” he enunciated the word. “It’s Taino for ‘parrot.’ Because of the efforts of those working at the Iguaca Aviary, the endangered Puerto Rican parrot population has started increasing. Still, you don’t see many. And when you do . . .”

  “You can’t help but capture its photograph,” she finished, knowing him almost as well as she knew herself. Or so she’d once thought.

  The reminder was a sobering one.

  His camera had been like an extension of his hands. Always there, somehow finding the perfect moment, a beautiful or moving image the average eye may have missed, but his never did.

  “So, you were snapping pics of this endangered bird and decided you could fly off the edge of the waterfall along with it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t quite—”

  “Only, gravity had other ideas,” she said, barely quelling the stark fear tightening her chest at the image of him toppling over the mottled gray and black rocks, his blood mingling with the water spilling off the jagged, slippery surface.

  Driving an ambulance, she had witnessed her fair share of death and carnage, far too often the result of foolish thinking. She didn’t have to rely on her imagination to conjure any number of potential accidents when a daredevil like Alejandro went hiking on his own. The idea of him or any of her loved ones being the victim on a call she responded to at the station made her blood run colder than the springs she’d once tubed down in Central Florida.

  “Not quite,” Alejandro countered. “I followed the parrot up a rock ledge I’d seen another hiker traverse. Actually got some incredible pictures of him in flight. A few other beauties with him perched on a tree limb.” He arched an impudent brow, far too sexy for someone in need of a bath, a shave, and a fatten-me-up Cuban mami meal. “I was feeling pretty satisfied with my Spidey climbing talents. Right up until my damn foot slipped and my non-superhero status became clear.”

  A laugh bubbled up her throat at his self-deprecating grumble and perturbed grimace. Anamaría slapped a hand over her mouth to smother it.

  “The only good thing was that I managed to save my camera from any damage.” He cradled his hands to his chest as if protecting a priceless object.

  Anamaría snorted in disbelief as she sat on the edge of his bed facing him, careful not to bump his leg. “So, your camera’s fine, but your tibia shaft didn’t fare nearly as well. Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Hey, anything for the best shot.” He spread his hands wide, his shoulders rising and falling with a shrug. “You know how it is. No pain, no gain.”

  “Uh-uh. That’s my line as a fitness instructor,” she countered. “Sounds much better when I say it.”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  “And we’ve always had different ones.” Coño, the jab slipped out before she could stop it.

  Tension snapped in the air. The old accusation hung between them like overripe mangos left to rot on the branch.

  “Forget I said that,” she offered, raising a hand to stem any argument from him. “It does no one, least of all us, any good to go there. The past is . . .”

  “The past,” he completed her thought when she let her voice trail off.

  Regret and the staunch determination to ignore it warred inside her, wounding her with each strike.

  Alejandro’s sober gaze ensnared hers. “I had no idea she called you. If I’d known what she was thinking, I would have—”

  “Been unable to stop her,” Anamaria interrupted. “She’s a force of nature, that woman. Much like my mami.”

  “Dios mío, deliver me from meddling mamis. One of many things I don’t miss about Key West.” His head dropped back to thump against the wall behind him.

  If she were a glutton for punishment, she’d ask what the other “many things” might be. But there was no need to confirm her place of honor on his undoubtedly long “don’t miss” list. That fact had become cruelly apparent the second she’d found out about his marriage to some swimsuit model. Less than six months after his and Anamaría’s final video chat.

  Dios, she would never forget the day her mom had sat her down at the familia dinner table. Her mami’s face shadowed with remorse. Brown eyes shiny with unshed tears. Her hands twisting with unease, afraid of how her baby girl would react.

  The news of Alejandro’s new wife had hit Anamaría like an unexpected backdraft, a whoosh of heated air and flames blowing over her. Incinerating her silly adolescent dreams and young love until they were nothing but a pile of smoke-tinged ashes.

  Not that Alejandro needed to know how decimated his actions had left her. Or the errant choices she’d made in the ensuing years.

  Her days of self-sabotage, of unwittingly falling into the trap of holding herself back, were over. She had her eyes on the future now. Not the past.

  “Yeah, well, get used to that meddling and hovering,” she warned him, scooting a little closer to peer at his injury. “If you’re stuck here while you convalesce and get back on your feet, odds are that’ll be at least a couple months. Longer if you’re hardheaded and don’t take care of yourself or follow your doctor’s orders. Like I’m guessing you haven’t been?”

  His bland expression didn’t fool her.

  “Thought so,” she muttered.

  “Believe me, I’m not pleased about having to drop or postpone my bookings for the next few months. I should be enjoying Belize. Not cooped up here. And after my mother’s move today, I am all for doing whatever it takes to speed up my recovery and get the hell out of here.”

  Of course he was. Leaving “the Rock” had always been his goal. She’d simply thought he meant to eventually return, and not by force.

  Her mistake.

  “That’s news I’m sure your doctor will approve of.” Opening the first-aid kit, Anamaría set a handful of cotton balls on the lid, adding medical tape and gauze to the supplies. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with. That way we can make sure you’re back out there snapping the next Alejandro Miranda award-winning photograph as soon as possible.”

  “So, you heard about those . . . the awards?” he clarified when she tilted her head in confusion.

  “Por favor.” She rolled her eyes at his failed attempt at modesty. “The way news travels around this island? In our comunidad? Who didn’t hear, whether they wanted to or not?”

  He waved off her backhanded praise, but his lips curved in a cocky tilt she would have tickled into a howl of laughter in the past. Not today, though.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t hold a freaking parade,” she went on. “Although it probably would have been awkward when the guest of honor didn’t bother showing.”

  His playful grin dissolved. Lips pressed together in a tight line, he rubbed a hand at the scruff on his cheeks, looking oddly uncomfortable with the truth.

  A sliver of guilt for her rudeness pricked her conscience. A bigger person would congratulate him on his success. Compliment his magazine covers, gush over the breath-taking, cinematic images he’d taken across the world.

  She wanted to be that kind of ex. Given a little more time to get used to having him home, grudgingly, she might get there. Maybe. At least, she could pretend better.

  Bending her head, she concentrated on an easier task, carefully removing the medical tape that attached a piece of gauze around one of the pin sites.

  “How ’bout we try this again,” she suggested. “Truthfully, how’s your pain?”

  A puff of warm breath teased the tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail as Alejandro blew out a weighty sigh. “Is there some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality? I have a rep to protect.”

  “Quit being a smartass,” she grumbled, shooting him a droll glance before pulling back another piece of medical tape. “Come on, fess up or I can’t help you proper
ly.”

  “Fine. But my mom worries enough as it is, so whatever we don’t have to tell her, let’s keep it that way.” He waited for her nod before continuing. “It’s holding steady at a seven.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Ha! You’re telling me,” he grumbled, wincing when she gently palpated his skin around the top pin sites.

  “Oh, believe me, I haven’t even begun my bad patient lecture.” And she planned to relish every word.

  Ten minutes later, Señora Miranda had yet to return with Alejandro’s snack. His mood had lightened, based on his irreverent quips, and Anamaría had finished cleaning each of the pin sites, relieved to find most of them healing well. One at the top of his shin was a little more tender than the others, not that his tough-guy act had let him admit it. She’d had to pester him for info. About that and his refusal to take stronger pain relievers.

  “You have got to stay on top of your meds,” she warned him. Not for the first time. Unfortunately, his hardheaded nature had failed to mellow with maturity. Reminding herself to stay in paramedic mode was all that kept her from throttling him in frustration. “If you don’t, you’re only chasing the pain and the medicine won’t be able to do its job. It’s basic first aid one-oh-one.”

  “Has anyone told you, you have a remarkable bedside manner?”

  “Stop it,” she grumbled, fully aware his teasing was a diversionary tactic.

  Head tipped back to rest against the wall again, he eyed her under hooded lids. “I’m sure everyone you help sends your boss glowing reviews. Am I right?”

  “My Captain,” she corrected with a reproachful glare. “And flattery won’t stop me from lecturing you.”

  He flashed her another tired grin, this one tinged with chagrin because he knew he’d been caught.

  “Or stop me from siccing your mom on you if necessary.” So much for remaining impersonal.

  Where was his mami anyway?

  Anamaría would lay money on odds that the older woman was purposefully taking her time grilling that sandwich, intent on leaving them alone in the bedroom as long as possible. My, how times had changed. In many ways.

  “Hey now, play fair,” he complained, nudging her knee with his fingers.

  Irritated 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 palpable fear on your mom’s face when she told us about your accident.”

  He blinked, clearly taken aback by her brusque tone. “Hey, 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, banging his head against the wall and wincing 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 water from 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 those who love you?” Those who also 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 pools of disappointment and . . . was that regret?

  No. No way would she let herself fall for that.

  “Yes, I do,” he murmured. “Believe me, I understand how the people we love are often the ones who hurt us the most.”

  Wait, was that some kind of dig at her? Indignation 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? Then stayed away for so damn long?

  Why hadn’t she, their comunidad, their island, been enough as his home base? A safe port to drop anchor after his travels.

  Why? Why? Why?

  The question reverberated in her head, 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, and prickles of awareness skittered up her forearm, arcing across her breasts.

  “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 force field, 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 metas,” 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 san’wich, también, 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. She didn’t need to eat. 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, Señora Miranda had counted on Anamaría’s ingrained manners.

  His mom patted the edge of Alejandro’s bed, in
dicating Anamaría should sit.

  He hitched a shoulder, the twist of his lips miming that there was no use arguing.

  As she stared at the insistent mother and insufferable son, 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 hard to outwit. Two teaming up?

  This called for reinforcements. As in, her brothers and their partners.

  First though, she’d have to finagle her way out of this impromptu, unwelcome lunch date with her hardheaded, sinfully sexy, wanderlust-driven ex.

  Chapter 3

  Alejandro jolted awake with a start. The jerky motion jostled his leg, and a stab of pain shot from his tibia up his thigh.

  Digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, he pressed against the headache pounding a sledgehammer in his head. Fuck, he felt like shit.

  He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, then squinted out his window. Based on the varying shades of orange and red streaking the purplish-blue sky above their neighbor’s Spanish tiled roof, he’d been zonked out for several hours. Sunset neared. One of his favorite times of day to grab his camera and explore whatever city, town, or village he found himself inhabiting.

  Thanks to his sucky luck, his exploring was curtailed for the time being.

  Grumbling under his breath, he snatched the water bottle his mom had left on the nightstand earlier. His gaze caught on the prom night photograph of Anamaría. Hazel eyes laughing, lush lips spread in her wide, engaging smile, she quirked her finger in a come-here motion. Had it been a video, he would have heard her get over here and kiss me; you know you wanna right before he snapped the picture.

  An order he had eagerly obeyed moments later.