Dancing in a Hurricane (33 page)

She did believe he hadn't been intimate with Cloe. The way he behaved that first day, when he thought she was Cloe. He acted as if they were business partners and nothing else, and his words just now at the pool struck her as truthful, sincere.

Still, was his drinking enough of an excuse to call her Cloe? She shrugged, perhaps. It happened to a lot of people. She once called a guy Kyle on their third date when he kissed her. What Sixto had done seemed more heinous because it was her sister.

They could get past this. She lay back on her pillow, looking at the ceiling for answers. What was the alternative? Making him move out? Her chest hurt at the thought of never seeing him again. Her recurring Aunt Prudence dream flashed through her mind. She'd fallen in love again, five years after losing Kyle. She couldn't give up because of one mistake.

Since she moved here, she seemed oversensitive. Prone to overreact. Especially to Sixto's mistakes. The day on the couch with her computer, she'd thought he was being territorial in front of Élian and Rico. When she and Sixto danced, she'd accused him of overstepping the boundary line. When they'd shopped for Halloween, she yelled at him for what she interpreted as his trying to seduce her.

This was just a blunder, she could forgive him. She sighed, her mouth turned down into a frown, and tears filled her eyes. But it hurt so terribly bad. She'd given her heart to him and he carelessly called her the first name that popped into his brain.

She rolled onto her side and a few tears escaped her eyes. She was sick of tears. This would be the last of them. She could be strong, handle anything that came her way—without the drama and waterworks.

When she heard a tapping on her patio door, she sat up to let him in but changed her mind. A drunken, apologetic Sixto was too much for her to handle right now.

Instead, she reached over turned off her lamp.

***

Rico woke alone in his bed at six Sunday morning. He tossed and turned, got up to pace the condo. Waiting as long as he could, he called Sixto at ten. "You still in bed?"

His buddy's voice sounded gravely. "No, I haven't slept. I'm working the day shift at the bar." He yawned. "What's going on?"

"Your sister. Has she said anything to you?" Marisa and Sixto were close. If Marisa would talk to anyone, it'd be her brother.

"No,
socio
, I asked her where you were yesterday. She said 'busy'."

Rico poured a cup of coffee and sat on the small balcony off his condo. Marisa told him he wasn't invited to the party. "Shit, busy trying to figure out what's going on with her."

Sixto coughed. "She was quiet yesterday. I assumed you two were fighting."

"She's writing some article for the paper, but she won't tell me what it's about. She said she'd show it to me when it's finished."

"Huh. You think it's something personal?"

"Hell, I don't know. Man," his voice got louder. "I haven't done anything wrong and she's still avoiding me."

"You want me to talk to her?"

"You or Bree. She thinks Bree's a better shrink than you are."

"She is." Sixto's chuckle sounded tired. "But she's not talking to me right now."

Rico smiled. "What did you do?"

"Called her Cloe."

He sat up, sloshing coffee over the rim of the cup. "No way, man. How'd you do that?"

A heavy sigh came through the phone line. "After I kissed her."

"Smooth, bro," Rico groaned.

"Stupid. But I was drinking."

He shook his head. "She's making you drink too much, Sixto. You gotta cut back." He sounded like his old man, scolding and grumpy, but Sixto needed to hear this. "Remember the night Élian and me hauled you out of Juancho?"

"Barely."

"You were drinking because of her then, too. What is it with the two of you?"

"Listen, I've got to go. I'll try to catch Marisa and see what's going on."

"Thanks, man. I owe you."

"You owe me a hell of a lot." He hung up.

Rico propped his feet up on the railing. Shadows from the palm branches moved over his legs. It'd be sticky today. He'd call Marisa and ask if she wanted to go to the beach, but she'd just put him off. She'd avoided him for days.

Behind him, the sliding door opened and Élian came out and stood next to him. "Alone again?"

Rico looked up at his friend. "I think she's over me."

Élian shook his head. "No, she's into you,
socio
. She's got something else going on. I can see it in her eyes."

"How do I get her to talk to me?"

"Tell her something about you. That'll encourage her to open up."

"Like what? I got no secrets."

"Tell her about Cindy," Élian said quietly as he stepped back into the condo.

Cindy. Rico almost forgot about her. It was so many years ago. Senior year of high school. She got pregnant by another man and when that asshole dumped her, she slept with Rico a few times and tried to tell him it was his baby.

By then, everyone in school knew the truth. Élian broke the news to him that the baby wasn't his.

When he confronted Cindy, she told him everything but asked him to stay with her, to help her raise the baby. While he took time to think about it, the biological father's parents made him admit paternity and marry Cindy. Rico never talked to her again.

He shook his head. How would Marisa react to his getting all mushy and sentimental? She'd probably run screaming. If it would get her out of her house and into his arms, shit, he'd do it.

He dialed her number.

"Hi Rico." Her voice had no life. This wasn't the flinty woman he was falling for.

"Marisa, I have something to tell you."

"I do too, Rico, but not today. I'm sorry. I'll call you."

"Marisa, don't—" She hung up. Goddamnit, she was going to break up with him. Things were going too good. He'd started planning a life with her. He should know better, she was out of his league. A greasy
Cubano
, high school diploma—barely. Working at his parents' restaurant, sharing a cheap condo. Did he really expect someone like her to settle for a nobody like him?

He felt a burning in his throat. He loved her, though. He sniffled. Tears? No, not him. He hadn't cried since he was thirteen and his
abuelito
died.

"Fuck her." He threw his coffee over the railing, got up, and walked in the house. He'd find someone else. Today. A hottie in a bikini.

"Élian, buddy." He walked up behind his friend as he poured coffee into a mug. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he grinned. "Let's go to the beach."

***

Bree woke at 10:30, her eyes felt puffy, but her outlook on the incident was much improved. She slid into her slippers, put on her robe, and shuffled out to the common area. A huge vase filled with dozens of pink roses sat on the dining room table. Her breath caught in her lungs. How did he know she loved pink?

An envelope with her name on it leaned against the vase. She opened it and pulled out the greeting card. On the front, a big, hairy, sad-looking dog lay next to a woman's tooth-mangled pump. The inside of the card read, "Sorry. Give me another chance?" And showed the matching pump—unchewed.

She giggled. Sixto definitely resembled a big, sad dog some days. He'd written, "I have no excuse. Please trust me to never do it again?" He signed it, "Sixto." Then he'd written, "And I unplugged the garbage disposal."

She laughed, set down the card, and pulled the vase toward her. Counting three dozen flowers, she wrapped her arms around them and buried her face in the velvety petals. The light rosy scent smelled amazing. She hadn't received flowers in years. Not since her twentieth birthday, from Kyle.

Comparing the two men, Kyle's cool, analytical style and religious fervor fit Washington's icy climate. She craved Sixto's hot, sensual possessiveness, his laid-back, tropical lifestyle.

Carrying the flowers into her room, she thought about going to the bar to see him but chose to wait. They needed privacy to tackle this issue. Sure, she'd make him grovel a little more, but the make-up kissing would be spectacular.

She gobbed on her green mud facial mask, waited ten minutes, and hopped in the shower. She shaved, exfoliated every inch of her skin, and slicked on body butter. In her bedroom, she cut the tags off her new fuchsia string bikini. Sixto hadn't seen it yet and she planned to show him as much of Bree as he could handle. He'd never—never—call her by another woman's name again.

***

Sixto took the Sunday brunch shift at the bar so James could be in a wedding the night before. The bar was a different place in the light of day. Making his fiftieth Mimosa of the afternoon, he gagged a little at the smell of liquor. If too much Jack Daniels didn't cure him of his drinking, calling Bree the wrong name sure as hell would.

What an idiot. He didn't even realize what he'd done until she shoved off of him. She was devastated and he didn't blame her.

"Three bloodies, two chasers and a Mimosa," a waitress called.

He nodded and poured vodka.

At eight this morning when his alarm went off, he'd woken a friend and asked him to open his floral shop and sell him roses. It was the first time he'd ever done anything that impetuous, and his buddy demanded the whole story. He insisted on giving Sixto the flowers no charge, but he wanted to meet this Bree girl who did what no other female ever could: tie down Sixto Doria.

The late rush slowed and Sixto slammed a glass of orange juice. He needed the energy to get the bar cleaned up with enough in reserve to deal with Bree when he got home. He hadn't slept well last night and he bet she hadn't either.

An edgy uncertainty filled him. How would she react when he got home today? How much apologizing did she expect from him? How much would his pride allow—? "Fuck my pride." He'd beg like a hungry dog. He'd get down on his knees and promise to be a world-class boyfriend if she'd forgive him. His family was right. She was the woman for him. He'd known it since the day he'd met her. It'd taken him a while, but he'd finally come around to admitting it.

It ached deep in his chest to know he'd hurt her last night. He'd friggin grovel at her feet and cry like a newborn if she didn't forgive him.

He stood at the sink rinsing drink glasses and heard a rowdy group of men come in. His watch said three o'clock. Must be an early happy hour. They sat at the bar and Sixto recognized the lifeguard who talked to him the day he washed up on the beach. He smiled and held out his hand. "Glad you stopped in."

"You're still alive!" They shook hands. "I'm Rafe."

"Sixto."

Rafe gestured to his buddies. "Mark and Cal."

Sixto shook their hands. "What'll you have? It's on me."

Rafe looked at his friends. "Bud?"

"Sure."

"Sounds good."

Sixto poured three Budweisers from the tap. "What are you beach boys doing out drinking so early?"

"We had training today. Makes a man thirsty."

Sixto nodded. "What doesn't make a man thirsty?"

"That's right," Rafe said. "You were going to switch to alcohol to drown your woman problems."

Sixto shrugged and shook his head. "Didn't work."

Rafe told his friends, "Sixto jogged over to the beach one day—where do you live?"

"Miami Shores."

"That's a long run. Anyway, he swam out almost to the breakers and let himself wash in."

"Shit, over a woman?" Cal asked.

"She's a hot one." He leaned his hands on the bar. Talking about Bree made all that anxiety rush back in.

"You know," Mark said, "I had a date with a woman from Miami Shores who lived with a roommate named Sixto. That's too much of a coincidence. Do you know Bree Prentis?"

Sixto looked at the man. Was this the asshole Halloween date that got Bree drunk and dumped her off at home? "Bree's my roommate."

The man's face turned nasty. "She's a partier."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sixto gripped the edge of the bar, suppressing the urge to smash a fist into the lifeguard's face. "Bree? No." He loaded glasses in the dishwasher to keep his hands occupied.

"That's not what I remember." He turned to his friends. "She was all into the tequila and beer and…" He turned back to Sixto. "She talked a lot about you."

"You know," Sixto said, his jaw tense, "a gentleman doesn't repeat what a lady says, especially when it's his fault for getting her drunk."

The lifeguard stiffened. After a couple seconds, he stood. "Who the fuck are you to tell me what to say?"

Sixto squared his shoulders. "I'm the man who's going to pound you into the sand if you don't shut the fuck up."

"Ease off you two." Rafe put a calming hand on his friend's shoulder and pushed him down onto his barstool. "Damn. All I wanted was a beer."

Sixto glared at Mark. The man only had to say one more thing about Bree to give Sixto an excuse to throw him out of the bar.