None of those options were ideal.
Then again, this countdown to the end wasn’t, either.
With a final farewell and a “pleasure meeting you,” his agent departed. Alejandro swung-stepped closer to her and cupped her elbow. A tiny spark tingled at the innocent touch paired with his not so innocent smile.
“You look incredible.” His appreciative gaze traveled slowly down her body like a lover’s caress, pausing at her dress’s deep V-cut neckline that left her no option but to go braless, down her swirly pleated skirt to her newly painted toenails. Their shade of red one of her favorites mostly because of its plucky name, Tell Me About It Stud.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“And your hair,” he mused, his voice hushed as if he spoke the words aloud without realizing it.
She’d left her hair loose tonight. Something she didn’t do too often, especially in the summer with the high heat and humidity.
But the other evening, lying in her bed, both of them hot and sweaty and sated, he’d mentioned how much he liked it when she wore her hair down. How he loved running his fingers through the silky strands. As he did now.
Gently, he brushed her hair off her shoulder, warmth spreading over her skin at his light touch. The back of his fingers strayed along her collarbone, then followed the thin spaghetti strap that held up her dress. The scrap of material stretched past the side of her neck, his roving fingertips tracing the edge where the material met her skin.
Leaning in, he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek in the casual hello shared by most in their comunidad. But his fingers continued tracing the dress strap to where it crisscrossed with the other one in the center of her back. His splayed hand scorched her bare skin, stoking the fire of desire that constantly simmered inside her when she was with him.
Pulse sparking, she placed a hand on his chest, longing to grab his lapel and pull him in for a tongue-tangling kiss the likes of which might scandalize their mamis. Then again, knowing them, maybe not.
If they were somewhere private, she would be in his arms by now. His mouth plundering hers. Her hands frantically working to undo the buttons on his shirt, anxious to explore the curves of his chest, the muscles rippling along his back. Dipping lower to revel at his body’s reaction to hers.
Instead, he eased away, his large hand slipping to the small of her back, leaving a trail of heat and need pulsing through her.
“And what about me?” Enrique complained, clasping Ale’s outstretched hand and stepping in for a bro’s shoulder bump.
“I have a feeling you’re pretty confident about how good you look,” Natalia drawled, stepping around the guys to press her cheek against Anamaría’s in greeting.
“You’ve certainly got that right,” Anamaría said with a laugh.
“Is this the friend you mentioned, Alejandro?” Natalia asked, facing Enrique.
At six foot four he towered over the petite woman, but she didn’t seem the least bit awed by her brother’s charisma. In fact, red lips quirked, head tilted at a saucy angle, Natalia eyed Enrique as if she were studying a new painting, deciding whether it deserved her consideration. Anamaría bit back a grin. This was more than likely a first for her Lothario-impersonating brother, who was used to swoony sighs from most women.
“Shame we haven’t met sooner.” Thumbs hooked in his front jeans pockets, Enrique arched a rakish brow, his brown eyes sparking with interest. And challenge. His lips twisted in his trademark cocky smirk.
No way, Anamaría nearly groaned out loud. Had the nitwit already forgotten her warning that Natalia was off-limits when it came to his cat-and-mouse game?
She glanced at Alejandro thinking he’d prefer to pull the plug on the sexually charged sparks flying between E and Natalia. Surprisingly, Alejandro’s smirk mirrored her brother’s.
Ale crooked a finger at her and tipped his head to the side. “Come, I have a surprise I want to show you.”
She hesitated, but neither Enrique nor Natalia seemed to notice anyone else around them. “I’ll catch up with you later, E, okay?”
Her brother didn’t even answer.
“What the hell is going on back there?” she asked as soon as she and Alejandro had moved out of earshot.
“It’s either going to be World War Three or they’ll make their own fireworks while Natalia’s in Key West. I’m not exactly sure which.”
“Yeah, it’s that first one I’m worried about.”
“He’s a big boy. And believe me, Natalia can hold her own,” Ale assured her.
They reached the end of the support wall that divided the gallery into two sides, and he gently clasped her upper arm, drawing her to a halt. “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
His thumb rubbed her arm lightly, the friction raising goosebumps across her skin. “Just humor me, por favor.”
She frowned her confusion, but the hopeful plea in his dark eyes convinced her to go along with him.
“Fine, but only because you asked nicely.”
Once her eyes were closed, her other senses heightened. The murmur of people milling about and Little José’s giggle somewhere off to her right seemed louder. The scent of Alejandro’s seductive aftershave mixed with the fried empanadas, plantains, and croquetas from Miranda’s was more pronounced. The warmth of his light grip on her arm as he guided her forward a couple paces seeped down her arm.
Then his fingers moved to her shoulder, softly turning her to the right. The metallic squeak of his crutch hinted at his movement seconds before the material of his suit jacket brushed against her bare shoulder blades. She shivered, her body tingling with awareness.
“So, remember when you signed that release form giving me permission to display a picture of you?”
She gasped. “Dios mío, you promised to show me first.”
Her eyes fluttered and he quickly covered them with his hand. “Ah-ah-ah! Not yet.”
“Alejandro,” she drew out his name in a soft warning, suddenly nervous about what she would find hanging on the gallery wall.
He was constantly snapping pictures when they were together. That was nothing new. But there’d been that one afternoon a week or so ago when they had goofed around in her master bedroom, him clicking away like he used to when they were younger. Only these pics had gotten a little racy. Oh, she’d remained mostly clothed, but no way in hell did she want her papi walking in here to find a blown-up photograph of her in nothing but black lace panties and Alejandro’s button-down.
“Actually, I promised I wouldn’t share anything inappropriate,” he qualified.
An embarrassed flush crawled up her face, heating her cheeks. “My idea of inappropriate. Not yours,” she specified.
He chuckled, then said thank you to someone who walked by offering their praise. She couldn’t place the voice.
“You have my word,” he said softly, bending so close his chest pressed against her back. Instinctively she leaned against him, seeking the intimacy she had missed the past few days. His minty breath warmed the side of her face, as he continued. “This photograph is the opposite of inappropriate. It exudes joy, respect, comunidad, belonging, and love. Definitely love. It’s one of my favorite photographs because it represents everything that makes you absolutely perfect.”
“Ale.” His name whispered out on a breath, his declaration leaving her overwhelmed by his honesty.
She reached out blindly, needing a connection with him. His fingers caught hers, lacing together until they were palm to palm.
He raised their joined hands to press a kiss on her knuckles, and her chest tightened with longing.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Chapter 19
Having passed the fat-burning zone back when he first covered her eyes, Anamaría’s heart rate triple-timed as he uncovered her eyes and they fluttered open.
She gasped, shock snatching the breath from her.
In the center of the pale wall in front of
her, as the main highlight of the People of the World section, hung a poster-sized color photograph of her, Jones, and Eddie walking hand in hand at the Gay Pride Parade last weekend. Smaller photographs of people celebrating, mourning, working, performing, and going about their daily lives across the globe dotted the rest of the wall, completing the display, but the larger photograph of her with her partner and his husband lured passersby to the collection.
Unable to resist, she edged closer, eyes drawn to the image.
Her gaze flitted across the expanse, taking in every detail. From their linked hands, to the absolute joy on the men’s faces as they gazed at each other and her wide openmouthed grin, to the regal crown braid she’d woven in her hair and the sun’s glare off Jones’s dark bald head, to the rainbow letters in the LOVE posters other marchers held high in the background. Some details in sharp focus, others a mesmerizing blur of colors. All parts of one impactful, breathtaking piece.
The small label under the bottom right corner, written in a neat script, read: “Love Is Love; not for sale.”
“What do you think?” Alejandro asked, his tone insistent and hesitant and hopeful at the same time. As if he felt compelled to know yet was afraid of her answer.
“It’s incredible.” The words rushed out of her on a wave of heartfelt wonder. “Jones and Eddie are going to flip when they see this. It’s . . . it’s—”
Overcome with elation, she spun to face him. Her chiffon skirt billowed out in a wide circle, wrapping around his charcoal dress pants.
“I love it, Ale,” she gushed. She grabbed his lapels to tug him in for a real kiss, not the friendly chaste kind they had exchanged when she arrived.
Alejandro’s smile broadened. “Good, because I lov—”
“There you are!” Her mami’s exuberant cry cut Alejandro off.
Cursing her mom’s terrible timing, Anamaría smoothed his lapel and turned to greet her parents, all the while wondering if Alejandro might have been about to say the words neither one of them had said to the other in years.
Arms outstretched for a hug, her mami rushed toward them. “Ay, Alejandro, your work is magnificent. We are so proud of you, aren’t we, José.”
Anamaría’s papi kissed her cheek, then clamped his hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “Yes, we are. Very proud. And this”—her papi jutted his chin at the parade photo—“this one is your best, verdad?”
“Ay, Papi, we all know you’re biased. Pero I love you.” Anamaría hugged her mom, already forgiving the interruption in the face of her resounding approval of Ale’s photographs.
“Have you made it to the back of the gallery yet?” she asked, knowing that’s where they would find the Mi Cuba collection in a semiprivate viewing area.
“No, little José and Ramón held us up with the animales,” her mami answered. “Alejandro, por favor, tell me you use one of those zooming-in cameras when you are out there con los leones y los elefantes.”
Alejandro chuckled, assuring her he was always safe when shooting animals in the wild. He motioned to the gallery’s far back corner across from the office. “Ven, I would like to show you what I hope will be your second-favorite area, after this one, of course.”
Her papi clapped him on the shoulder again. “You are learning, hijo. There is hope for your generation after all.”
When they reached the private viewing area, they found Alejandro’s mom standing a few feet away from the black curtain hanging in front of the room’s opening.
Señora Miranda’s red-rimmed eyes and splotchy face had them all quickening their pace to reach her.
“¿Mami, qué te pasa?” Alejandro handed his crutch to Anamaría’s dad, then wrapped his arms around his mother.
She sniffled, tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated, pulling back to gaze down at her. “Did you and Papi fight again?”
Again? Anamaría frowned. What did he mean by that? She looked to her mami, who shook her head, indicating she was in the dark, as well.
“No, no, hijo, I blame you for mis lágrimas,” his mami said on a sniffle as she wiped the tears she, for some reason, attributed to him. “These I shed with pride.” Cupping his face with both hands, she gave him a watery smile. “What you have done here, what you have gifted our familia and our generation with inside this room . . .” Her voice broke and she finished on a raspy whisper. “Gracias, hijo.”
Alejandro hugged her tightly, his worried expression melting into relief.
Knowing how badly Alejandro had feared his mother’s reaction to these specific photographs, how much her words must mean to him, Anamaría gently rubbed the area between his shoulder blades, offering support.
“Where’s Abuela?” he asked.
“She was feeling a little tired. Marcelo took her to his office to rest in the quiet. We can show her this room once the crowd has left, okay?”
He nodded, but Anamaría caught his gaze flitting to the office door, a tiny groove marring the space between his brows with his frown.
The curtain blocking the private viewing area’s entrance brushed aside and two teenaged girls exited. Señora Miranda grasped the material to hold it open, and the teens shuffled past, one leaning toward the other with a murmured, “That was pretty cool.” Then, her round face beaming with pride, Alejandro’s mom invited Anamaría and her parents into the private viewing area.
Just as the curtain fluttered closed behind them, Natalia poked her head inside.
“Excuse me for interrupting.” Her sharp gaze politely paused on each of them before stopping with Alejandro. “There’s a gentleman interested in purchasing a piece in the Nature and Wildlife collection, but he’d like to speak with you first.”
“Vete, hijo. Go on!” His mami shooed him with a flick of her wrist. “José, Lydia, and I will reminisce about our Cuba while I share our familia historia through your fotografía maravillosa. Go take care of your business. We will be here waiting for you.”
She gave him another watery, pride-filled smile before clasping Anamaría’s mami’s hand and leading her best friend toward the far corner. Seconds later, the two moms were gushing over a picture taken along the Malecón in Havana. Her father’s deep voice joined theirs with his own awed exclamation.
Beside her, Alejandro cupped her elbow, an apology shadowing his dark eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She ran her fingers down his lapel, as close to a caress as she would allow herself in front of their parents but still wanting to soothe his worry.
“Why are you apologizing? This is fantastic, Ale. Plus, the more pieces you sell, the more you’ll be able to help your . . . um . . . those who are in need.” She picked her way around the words, speaking in code since Ernesto had admitted that their mom was still not aware of the issues Miranda’s was facing with the bank and their previous insurance policy lapsing.
“Thank you.” He pivoted on his good leg and took a swing step away, then suddenly turned back to her. “All the work and planning and preparing for tonight, while dealing with the tension at home, I wouldn’t have made it through without you.”
Reaching out, he snagged a lock of her hair, then let it sift through his fingers. “I want you to know—”
“Alejandro, the buyer doesn’t have much time,” Natalia called. Her arched brows wrinkled her forehead as she mouthed, Sorry, to Anamaría.
Anamaría waved off the apology with an understanding smile. The woman was doing her job. And doing it well by the sound of things.
With a muttered, “I’ll try to hurry,” Alejandro strode from the viewing area, leaving the curtain fluttering behind him.
Twenty minutes later, Anamaría still waited by the entry as her parents and Señora Miranda stood, mesmerized, staring at the grouping of images titled Mi Familia. Three smaller pictures hung on both sides of and above a larger one. The courtyard fountain photograph Anamaría had seen the first night Alejandro shared his Cuba pictures with her hung on top. The one
on the right featured a modest cream stucco church with a wooden steeple rising into a soft blue sky dusted with wispy clouds. In the last of the trio, two older women in worn batas that hugged their round bellies stood side by side, their arms laden with mangos from a sprawling tree behind them as they mugged for Alejandro’s camera, smiles wide and friendly.
But the pièce de résistance holding center stage, the one that had Señora Miranda’s hand covering her trembling lips, was the large photograph of a dilapidated one-story corner building, its windows pieces of jagged glass or boarded-up completely, red graffiti decorating the planks. Its wooden sign tilted and weather-beaten, a faded capital M in a flourishing script its only identifier.
“Ay Dios mío!” Anamaría’s mami gasped. She pressed a hand to her chest, her fingers worrying the crucifix dangling from her gold chain. “¿Esto es Miranda’s? ¿La original?”
“Sí, it is,” Señora Miranda answered, nostalgia tingeing her words. “Victor’s parents courted while strolling around that fountain. This church is where they were married, where Victor and his brother were baptized. And these . . .” Her fingers hovered over the image of the two women. “Victor’s primas. Cousins he has not seen in person since he left. These pictures . . . son fantásticos.”
A yearning for old times, for familia they hadn’t hugged in decades, weighed on her words. At the same time, it was clear that pride in her son’s masterful work bolstered her spirit.
“Has Victor seen these?” Anamaría’s dad asked.
Señora Miranda’s smile faded as she shook her head.
“He didn’t walk through the display when he brought the food?” Anamaría’s papi asked, his fierce frown broadcasting his displeasure when Señora Miranda shook her head again.
“Victor cooked, porque I threatened him with—bueno, that does not matter. He cooked the food, pero staff helped me with everything. El cabezón refuses to listen to me. ¡Ya casi estoy harta de él!”
Anamaría flinched at the harsh, angry words. It wasn’t unusual for Señora Miranda to call her husband hardheaded. El cabezón had always been more of an endearment in the past. Everyone knew Victor Miranda’s stubborn streak wasn’t a mere mile wide, more like almost the ninety miles that separated Key West from his beloved Cuba.
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