Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  “It’s what you used to dream about.” What they dreamed about together.

  Nostalgia, bittersweet and aching, swelled in her chest.

  “I did,” he acknowledged with a dip of his head, swiping at the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead, into his eyes. “Still do.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  Gaze glued to the tile at her feet, he rubbed a hand up and down his angular jaw, pensive. Uncomfortable . . . or, strange, maybe even uncertain?

  That wasn’t the Alejandro Miranda she’d known. Or the one that he ran off and became without her. Uncertain did not describe the man who scaled waterfalls and ran with the bulls and wielded a machete to help remote villagers forge a trail to a new water source in South America.

  Seeing this side of the man who had become almost larger than life in the pictures she saw on social media and the stories his mami and abuela had shared with her over the years reminded Anamaría of the boy struggling with the desire to please his familia while being true to himself. The teen she had given her heart to, before he’d become the angry young man fighting for what he wanted in a way she couldn’t go along with.

  Caught up in her own struggle between what she had yearned for and what was reality, she watched Alejandro absently scratch at the several days’ scruff darkening his jaw. His mussed hair and slightly wrinkled tee gave him a just-rolled-outta-bed vibe that he wore well. Like, dangerously well. Reminding her of other, more private activities they had shared when not gallery hopping together.

  The thrill of young love, of sharing firsts with someone your heart assured you was the one. Lust curled through her, puckering her nipples at the delicious memory of his touch and the thought of the times since then when she secretly conjured him in her bed when she was alone with a certain battery-powered toy.

  Conscious of her thin exercise bra material, she crossed her arms and angled away from the living room window, away from peeping eyes inside.

  “Why haven’t you said anything about the exhibit?” she asked, pulling her thoughts back to a much safer topic. “The Cuban mami grapevine would already be working overtime to spread the word. Forget matchmaking!”

  “I don’t know. I mean . . . shit, this is stupid.” He blew out a harsh laugh, one hand tap-tap-tapping the metal crutch bar nervously. “You’d think I’d be past this by now.”

  “Past what?”

  He stared at her intently for several beats, tension emanating from him. That strange uncertainty she would never attribute to him clouded his dark eyes.

  “My work isn’t something my father necessarily takes pride in. You know that,” he admitted. His throat bobbed with a swallow and a shadow darkened his dejected expression even more. “I don’t want him to take me having a local exhibit as another sign of me thumbing my nose at him, at Miranda’s.”

  Anamaría’s heart ached for him. For the son who, whether he admitted it or not, admired and looked up to his father, who couldn’t bring himself to accept their differences. Ironically, they shared one important similarity, both having worked their way up from entry level positions in their respective professions. One going from dishwasher to successful restaurant owner; the other moving from apprentice to sought after, award-winning photographer.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Alejandro lifted a shoulder, dropping it in a blasé move he might think would mask his disappointment.

  Maybe it worked with others. But not with her. She knew him too well. Despite her years of trying to forget. “It’s okay to admit that it does. Matter, I mean.”

  Angry lines creased his brow, but he didn’t respond.

  “I understand that he’s always been tough on you. But I also know that he’s capable of changing his mind. I’ve seen it. He’s been open-minded with me.”

  Alejandro’s frown deepened, his eyes filling with scornful anger the more she defended his father.

  “Maybe if you—”

  “You know what? Screw it!” Lifting his crutches, Alejandro stomped them against the tile with an angry thump. “The owners of Bellísima were planning to be out of town all of July, so they didn’t schedule a special display. They’re willing to change their travel and host the opening night of my exhibition July Fourth weekend. That’s pretty fucking incredible of them. I shouldn’t be dragging my feet because of someone who won’t even try to understand my perspective. I’m gonna give Marcelo and Logan a definitive yes.”

  “That’s . . . that’s good. I think you should.” She honestly did. Maybe witnessing his son’s success would stir Señor Miranda’s benevolence.

  “Mami and Abuela will be thrilled,” Alejandro went on, as if still working to convince himself that this was the right decision. “Ernesto and Cece can bring Lulu. Maybe even the new baby. Plus, your parents and brothers. Even, well, everyone’s welcome. . . if they’re interested.”

  He stared at her. A silent, hopeful invitation. As if he doubted whether or not she would accept.

  She could never tell him no. Not about something so important to him. His exhibition was a shared dream from their past. This was a chance for them to experience it together. Albeit, in a different way than anticipated.

  A lump lodged in her throat, and she swiveled to face the open front yard again. The bougainvillea vines with their bright fuchsia flowers trailing up the inside of the privacy wall blurred. She blinked rapidly, willing away the sting of tears. It’d be hard, witnessing his achievement as an old friend, rather than his partner.

  But coño, she did not want to be the bitter ex-girlfriend anymore. The one left behind, whose familia tiptoed around whenever his name came up.

  She hadn’t done herself any favors by settling into that role, even if it had happened unintentionally.

  This was a chance for her to prove she had moved on. Prove to him, her familia, and, more important, herself.

  “If I’m not on duty, I’ll be there,” she promised. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  His shoulders relaxed, as if her acceptance removed some of the weight pressing on them.

  “Bellísima’s a beautiful space,” she said, moving the focus off them and their past to a positive in their future.

  “It is. Marcelo and Logan have a great eye.”

  “I’m sure your photographs are going to look amazing there.”

  He smiled, the excitement she had expected with his announcement finally dawning on his handsome face, softening his chiseled jaw. “Yeah, I’m already combing through my files, imagining different collections. Thinking about where they’d best fit in the space. Marcelo may bring in an art consultant he knows since we’ll have to pull this together so quickly. That’s why I’m roping in my mom. If I ask her to be in charge of the food and help with promo, she’ll stay busy.”

  “Not, however, if she’s also worrying about your recovery. Tossing your PT wasn’t the brightest move.”

  “Again, with the nagging!” He gave an exaggerated groan and spun away on his good foot.

  The rubber grip on the bottom of his crutches stuck to the tile, and his left crutch clattered to the floor. His injured leg swung out erratically, both arms and the lone crutch he still held flailing through the air as his torso wobbled from side to side in his fight to maintain his balance.

  Anamaría lunged forward hoping to catch him before he fell.

  “I got it—Ow!” Alejandro groaned as her knee accidentally banged into the top external fixator ring.

  Her arms encircled his waist, inadvertently knocking the second crutch aside, sending it crashing to the floor with the other. His eyes widened with an almost comical combination of astonishment as she tightened her hold, hugging his body against hers in an intimate embrace.

  They wound up chest to chest, her face buried in the warmth of his neck, his woodsy patchouli and citrus scent filling her lungs. One of his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the other around her hip, his hand cradling her butt cheek.

  Her brain sounded an alarm, warning her to
step back, put some distance between them. Instead, she fisted his T-shirt in her hands, unable to let go of him yet.

  A car pulled into the neighbor’s driveway, its squeaking brakes interrupting the charged silence on the Mirandas’ front porch.

  Alejandro cleared his throat, a low rumble that vibrated against her nose and cheek, still nestled in the crook of his neck.

  “Damn, woman, if you wanted to sneak a feel, all you had to do was ask. Not tackle me,” he teased.

  Angling her head to peek up at him, she quirked a brow in challenge. “I’m not the one with a hand on someone’s ass.”

  He winked, then had the audacity to flex his fingers on her butt cheek. Lust shot from her glute straight to her core, leaving her throbbing with desire.

  “It’s pretty hard to resist when a good-looking woman throws herself at me. Not that I mind.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet.” She started to pull away, enjoying the titillating feel of being in his arms again way too much for her own good.

  Alejandro’s arm around her shoulder stiffened, holding her in place.

  She started to object, but he ran a hand through the strands of her loose ponytail, his fingertips grazing the bare skin on her back between her sports bra and leggings, and her argument evaporated. Her pulse hitched as he twisted his wrist to wrap the length of her hair around his open palm like he used to do. Tethering himself to her. He lifted the tangled strands to his face and her eyes drifted closed, reveling in the rise of his chest pressing against hers as he sucked in a deep breath.

  “Still using the same tropical shampoo you like, huh?” he murmured.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. Telling herself to step back. Put “friendly truce” distance between them.

  But he sucked in another deep whiff of her shampoo, and she swore he stole the very breath from her.

  “God, I’ve smelled this scent in my dreams so many times.” His deep voice rumbled over her, a rich, husky caress. “Thought I caught a whiff of it once at an open-air market in India.”

  Tears burned her eyes, and she squeezed them shut even tighter.

  His other hand slid from her butt to her lower back, leaving a trail of heat that burned with its intensity. She pressed closer. Not wanting to let go of him. Of this moment.

  “Damn, I’ve missed you.”

  His gruff admission was her undoing. A hot tear leaked out of the corner of her eye to trail down the side of her face.

  He’d missed her. Just not enough to come back. Not until he was forced to.

  And, inevitably, he would leave again.

  Her watch and phone buzzed with an incoming text message alert, a welcome intrusion stopping her from revealing an admission of her own that she would later regret.

  Loosening her hold, she eased back, careful to hold him steady. “We should get you inside. I’m sure the PT didn’t intend for you to ditch the wheelchair for good.”

  Alejandro nodded but slid his hand down the length of her ponytail one last time, his fingers threading through the strands. The familiar gesture tightened twin knots of desire and regret deep within her.

  He held on to her shoulder to steady himself while she toed one of his crutches closer, then bent to pick it up. When she stooped to grab the second one, her phone buzzed with another incoming call. She handed him the crutch and caught Sara’s name scrolling on her watch screen again.

  “You mind if I take this?” she asked. “Sara’s tried to reach me several times since I got here.”

  “Go for it.”

  Answering on her cell rather than via speakerphone on her watch, Anamaría stepped to the far side of the porch. “Hey, Sara, what’s up?”

  “Hi. Listen . . . I don’t want you to freak out about anything,” Sara said, her harried voice sounding like she might be freaking out herself. “I’m working on a Plan B. So don’t worry, okay?”

  “What are you talking about? And, FYI, when you lead with ‘don’t freak out,’ it usually makes someone do exactly that,” Anamaría joked.

  The crutches squeaked and she glanced over her shoulder to find Alejandro had moved closer. Just like one of their moms, he made no attempt to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “I take it you haven’t seen Craig’s email to us?” Sara asked.

  “The photographer for tomorrow’s photo shoot? No. I’ve been, um, a little busy since my morning yoga class. Haven’t paid attention to notifications.”

  Sara’s heavy sigh blew through the phone speaker. “He got food poisoning, so he can’t make the drive from Miami today. He’s a no-go for the AllFit shoot in the morning.”

  “Oh crap! And Brandon’s on his way here already, isn’t he?” Anamaría slapped a hand over her forehead, the news making her do exactly what Sara had advised against, freak out. “Um, let me think who I could try locally. I know a few photographers; it’s just a matter of whether or not one of them’s available?”

  “If worse comes to worst, I can take the pictures myself,” Sara suggested. “Brandon and I have a good eye. So do you. We should be fine.”

  “In a pinch, I’d say okay. But with Brandon coming all this way, I’d hate to not use a professional if we can avoid that,” Anamaría said. The guy was planning to give her first AllFit post a boost by sharing their pictures on his social media accounts, tagging her to help drive his followers to her feed.

  “¿Qué pasa?” Alejandro whispered over her shoulder.

  She waved him off, then stopped, an idea taking hold. A crazy one. But definitely their best option.

  “Hey, Sara, give me a few minutes. I might have a solution.”

  “You do? What is it?” Sara asked, surprise raising her voice an octave.

  “Let me see if it’ll work first. I’ll call you in about ten, when I’m on my way to the Casa Marina for another group class.” After reassuring Sara that she did indeed have something up her sleeve, Anamaría disconnected the call. Tapping her cell on her chin, she stared blindly at the front yard as she considered the pros and cons of what she was about to propose.

  “What’s going on?” Alejandro asked.

  Craning her neck, she peeked at him over her shoulder. “You’re tired of being confined to the house. Watching telenovelas with your abuela. Right?”

  Alejandro eyed her suspiciously but nodded and step-swung on the crutches to stand beside her on the patio’s edge. He squinted down at her under the late-morning sun.

  “Got any plans tomorrow?” she asked.

  His “pffft” and accompanying scowl boded well for her scheme.

  “I’m waiting to hear back from Marcelo about whether the art consultant he knows in Chicago is available. So, you’re pretty much looking at my plans.” He waved a hand down his front, then at the empty yard. “Although ’Buela’s telenovela is really starting to heat up. El patrón is about to find out—”

  “Okay, okay, stop!” she said on a laugh, holding up her hands. “Then I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oye, what kind of guy do you take me for?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. “First you feel me up, now you’re propositioning me?”

  “¡Ay Dios mío, por favor!” She bumped her shoulder against his, relieved that their up close and personal moment earlier hadn’t made things awkward. “I’m in a bind, but I have an idea that’ll get you out of the house, get me some fantastic photographs courtesy of the best photographer currently on the island—”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.” He winked, that cocky grin of his flashing again.

  “Thought so.” She wrinkled her nose at him playfully. “And, my idea will stop our moms from trying to finagle a way to get us together. Mainly because we’ll already be together.”

  “Hmm, I’m intrigued.” Alejandro twisted to glance back inside the house where his mami and abuela now sat on the floral couch in front of the television, smiles wide as they waved at him.

  Of course the two women were watching. They were probably taking notes to repo
rt back to her mami.

  Anamaría checked the time on her watch, not wanting to arrive late for her next session. She quickly filled Alejandro in on Brandon’s short time frame visit, their planned photo shoot at Higgs Beach and the White Street Pier, and the sick photographer.

  “The wheelchair situation isn’t ideal, but I’ll manage,” Alejandro said. “I’d want to get a rundown on any particular shots AllFit has in mind. As well as what you and Brandon are thinking. Maybe Sara, too, since she’s got experience with similar shoots.”

  “Are you sure? This is a big ask. And we’re . . .” Anamaría trailed off, unsure how to describe what the heck they were now.

  “We’re two professionals helping each other. I haven’t taken a picture since my epic swan dive and could stand to get out of here for a bit. You need my stellar skills. Win-win.” He pivoted on his good leg to face her, lifting his crutches off the tile this time to avoid a replay of his earlier debacle.

  He lifted a hand to cup her shoulder, but his gaze slid to the front window where his mami and abuela sat in plain view. Furtively watching as if Anamaría and Alejandro were their telenovela come to life.

  His hand dropped back to the crutch handgrip.

  Probably a good thing. Based on the way she had nearly combusted at his simple ass grab a few minutes ago.

  “Okay, let me get your number and I’ll text you Sara’s. I’m booked with classes and private sessions, so I won’t be available until midafternoon.” Anamaría pulled her cell from her leggings pocket and handed it to him. As soon as he was done saving his information in her contacts, she stepped off the porch. Spinning around to point at him, she backpedaled across the grass. “Now you need to get inside and elevate that leg, so you’re not in pain tomorrow because you overdid it today.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “Suck it up and call your PT. Stick with her for at least a couple weeks to make sure you know what the hell you’re doing and don’t reinjure yourself. Even if it’s just to pacify your mom.”