Dancing in a Hurricane (53 page)

Gina grabbed her hand. "Do you want to talk, Bree?"

She shook her head. "I'm not ready. Give me a couple days, okay?"

"Sure, but…" Annette gave Gina a wink. "I need a babysitter tomorrow night and—"

Bree laughed. "Shut up!"

Gina made the check sign to the waitress. "I'll get the drinks tonight, but you have to promise me, Bree, that you'll open up to us."

Bree looked between her friends and saw their concern. "I will, but it's still too raw."

Annette squeezed her hand. "When you're ready, call us."

They bundled into their winter coats and left the bar, Bree's Toyota had a difficult time starting, and she let it warm up for a few extra minutes. If she was going to stay here, she'd need a new car. If.

The spindrift feeling of uncertainty overtook her again and she grabbed the cold steering wheel to steady herself. So damn many choices, decisions to make. Her realtor stopped by yesterday. He thought if Bree lowered her asking price, the house might sell. He had a few interested families. But then where would she go?

She was on leave from her job in Miami. Her boss was understanding, giving her a week off even though she just started work. "Your health comes first," he'd said, when she told him she had to take care of some personal issues. He must have meant "mental" health. She definitely needed a lot more than a week to bring about that miracle.

Backing out of her parking spot, she glanced up at a billboard for beach vacations through Aeromexico. A young couple in bathing suits splashing into the blue waters of some tropical location. She shifted into drive and slammed on the accelerator. She loved Miami. Loved her job, loved her house, loved…

"That Asshole." The last four days she ping-ponged between crying despair and foot-stomping anger. He was unreasonable. Wouldn't even listen to her, wouldn't accept her apology or her offer to "talk it out." And that was his mantra! Stubborn, self-righteous, obstinate…handsome, loving, kind man. God, she missed him.

She drove past her old high school and thought of Kyle. He would never let her work at the Port Angeles hospital again. She'd have to drive to Seattle for a job.

Or, she could live in Miami. Find an apartment near the beach, build her own life separate from Sixto. Her shoulders sagged. Hopeless. Why bother? The best part of Miami was him and his incredible family. She could find a job anywhere in the world, buy a house or rent an apartment on any street in any city. But the kind of love and acceptance she found with Sixto and his relatives and friends would be difficult—impossible—to stumble upon again.

Pulling into her garage, Bree waited for the overhead door to close, got out of her car with the house keys in her hand, unlocked the door and stepped inside, pressing the lock button on her car key. She closed the house door and locked it, turned on lights, and checked every room to be sure it was secure.

She was nervous living alone again. Funny, five years of being on her own here and she was never this jumpy. It felt foreign to her, being back in her childhood home. Maybe a security system, or a dog…if she stayed. If.

The mantle clock struck eleven. She smiled as she hung up her coat. Big party girl, staying out sooo late. She yawned. The time change from Florida was difficult to adjust to. She picked up her paperback from the coffee table and trudged upstairs. A cup of tea would be nice, but she was spoiled. The instant hot water at Sixto's house was so convenient and here she had to wait minutes for water to heat in the microwave. Lazy.

No, maybe not lazy, just unmotivated. As she climbed the creaky wooden steps, she felt anesthetized. As if she were in suspended animation, waiting for the next event to happen so she could react. At least she didn't have to worry about money. She'd be fine for a few months, until she decided what to do with herself.

Setting down her book, she turned on the electric blanket on her queen-size bed, changed into her pajamas and snapped on the bathroom light.

"A few more days." She looked at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. She'd given him one week to call her before she would call him and see if she could grovel her way back into his life. And she would, too. She was fully prepared to beg, apologize, promise anything.

But how stubborn was he? Her gut instinct told her he was too damn stubborn to forgive her.

She turned off the bathroom light and crawled into her warm bed. Maybe she wouldn't even bother. She should just contact him through her attorney and they could decide what to do with the house. It'd be easier that getting her hopes lifted only to let him cruelly stomp on them. Again.

Her window faced the ocean and the calming rotation of the lighthouse beacon brought her back to her childhood. When she was about ten, she moved her bed so she could see the guiding light, imagining it drawing sailors and fishermen home. And here she was. Home. The place that should be a safe nest, but it felt…wrong.

Opening her paperback, she dove back into the story, losing herself in the drama, drowning out the tragedy of her own life. After a half hour, she heard a ping at her window. She looked over, expecting to see rain, or sleet. Nope, clear night.

Another ping and she set down her book. Again, a ping and a muffled voice from outside.

She turned off her lamp, grabbed her phone, and sidled to the window, peeking out. Someone stood on her front sidewalk, backlit from the streetlight, holding something in his arms—a gun?

A guitar.

Her breath caught and her heart swelled. "Sixto." She unlocked the window and pushed it up, released the catches on the storm window and shoved it up, too. Tempted to jump out, stage dive and land smack in his arms, she settled for sticking her head out and asking, "¿
Que bola
?"

He laughed, a shaky sound. He wasn't dressed for the weather. He had to be freezing. "I'm good. How about you?"

She dropped her head and reveled in the sound of his voice. Looking at him, she said, "I'm better, now that you're here."

"Bree." He strummed his guitar. "I wrote a song for you."

Surprise lightened her intense emotions. "You don't write songs."

He started playing. "This one was easy."

"Briana," he sang. "I can't live without you. I know I can't love without you. I've never loved anyone, until I fell for you."

She bit her lips together to keep from crying.

"If you want to live in Washing-town, I'll be the only Cuban in this town."

She giggled.

He shrugged and continued, "But it'll be a happy life, if you'll be my woman, for the rest of our lives."

The rest of our lives. Her heart swelled, chills—not just from the frigid temperature—shivered through her.

He continued singing. "Briana, do you think, you can forgive me? Kiss me again, make me whole again." He looked up at her, the streetlight shining on half his face showed how sincere he was. And how cold. He was shaking.

She slammed her window shut and bolted down the stairs, turning on lights as she went. She flipped on the front porch light and opened the door.

He set his guitar in its case.

She ran barefoot into his arms.

He caught her and swung her around. He was icy, wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and cowboy boots. Pressing her lips to his was like kissing a Popsicle. "Come inside."

He shook his head. "Forgive me first."

"Okay, you're forgiven." She stepped back and tugged his hand, but he was a stalagmite. "Come on."

"No, seriously, Bree." He pulled her back to him. "I won't come in unless you can honestly say you'll be able to put this behind us and start over."

She centered herself, let a shiver run up her spine, and took his hands.

"I do forgive you, Sixto. Honestly and with all the love I have in my heart for you. And since you're here…" She squeezed his cold hands. "I'm assuming you've forgiven me?"

He nodded. "I was wrong to be so quick to condemn you."

She jolted at the word condemn. As if he viewed her actions as something evil. She took a breath. "It must be difficult for you to let this go."

He grimaced. "We need to talk. Set expectations for the future."

She nodded and through chattering teeth, asked, "Can we please do it inside?"

"Yeah, we better. Before my hot Cuban blood turns into slush." He picked up his guitar case and duffel bag and followed her inside.

Locking the door behind them, she went to the thermostat and cranked it from 68 to 79. He'd need the extra degrees to thaw.

He followed her, looking around. "This is nice."

It hadn't changed since the '70s. "Quaint?"

"Comfortable."

She chuckled. "Like a grandmother's house."

"I could live here." He looked into her eyes.

She lifted her brows. "What? Why?"

"Wherever you are, I want to be." He shivered.

"But Washington? We'd better get you warmed up." She turned and headed to the kitchen. "I think your brain cells might be frozen."

He stood by the kitchen table, looking at the vintage appliances and furniture. "Yeah, you're right. This is just like my Abuelita Ximena's house."

Bree laughed as she pulled out hot chocolate, coffee, and tea bags.

He nodded to the counter. "Coffee would be great."

She plugged in the coffee pot. "I never had the money to redecorate."

"It suits you."

She glanced at him. "It suits my Great-Aunt Prudence. But how does it suit me?"

He smiled and crossed his arms over his chest, warming his hands in his armpits. "You're conservative, a little old school and—"

"Old school?" She poured grounds into the filter and started it brewing. "I guess you're right. Cosmo would never do a story about me."

He laughed. "If they could see you in the bedroom…" He walked toward her. "They'd have a whole issue on hot and sexy." He pulled her into his arms. "Aw, Bree." His gaze scanned her face. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

She flattened herself against him, holding on as if he was her last hope. "Don't ever do that again."

He buried his face in her neck. "Yeah, I freaked out." He inhaled deeply and laced his fingers in her hair, at her nape. "I gotta learn not to do that."

"It was a Category 5, wasn't it?"

He pulled back and smiled, but it faded and his eyes clouded. "I was cruel. I'm not like that."

She kissed his chin. "I know you're not. It was the shit storm of the century. I'll do everything I can to make sure it never happens again."

He pressed his hands on both sides of her face. "God, how do I deserve you?"

She laid her hands on top of his. "We're a lot alike, Sixto. I was ready to walk out on you for withholding the truth—"

"Lying."

Her lips quirked. "Lying. And you were willing to let me go for the same reason."

He pulled her tight against him. "We need to trust each other with the truth."

She pushed herself back. This was going to hurt. "I've thought about it, though. About the abortion and Victor." She swallowed, took a breath. "The truth is, I don't think I'd do anything differently, if I had to do it over again."

Chapter Forty-One

Sixto released her and walked to a kitchen chair, leaning on it, looking at the table.

Bree would love to be able to read his mind right now. Opening the cupboard, she set two cups, spoons, and sugar on the table.

He pulled out the chair and plopped down.

She sat across from him and waited for him to speak.

His brow wrinkled, he seemed tense. Finally, he said, "You know, I understand why you feel that way." He looked into her eyes. "But you and Marisa both assumed I'd be unreasonable. You thought I'd high-tail it out of the house after that bastard and end up in prison for the rest of my life."

He stood and walked to the counter, looking out the kitchen window into the woods. "You underestimated me."

She felt a twinge of guilt. "You're right. We did—I did. I think it's just that you and I haven't known each other very long. I fell victim to Marisa's hysterical fever, believed her when she said you'd do something crazy. I didn't give myself time to think it through."

He turned and looked at her.

"My God, you're a psych major." She threw her hands up. "Why did I think you couldn't control yourself?"

His eyebrow twitched. "I'm just asking you to trust me, believe that I'm not a hotheaded Cuban whose first impulse is to slash and burn."

She laced her fingers together. "Of course I do. And I promise to tell you everything, no matter how minute."

He leaned back on the counter, watching her.

What was he looking for?

"Do you…" He swung his head, cracking his neck. "Can we start over, Bree?"

She smiled, her chest ached from the love in her heart. "We can." She stood and flew into his embrace. "I love you, Sixto. More now than ever."