Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

14. Lena

I can do this.

I have given dissertations. Lectures to thousands. Dozens of filmed interviews.

I can stand in a dress on a charter boat in front of twenty-five entrepreneurs and talk about Puerto Rico’s imperial tactical location and how Isla de Cabras used to be a leper colony.

Chronic skin disease—just what everyone wants to think about on a sunset cruise. Maybe I should keep that one in my back pocket.

If I had back pockets. Yesterday, the Morales siblings failed to mention that this event was a pre-cocktail party tour.

I found out about it early this afternoon when Julia arrived with a loaner outfit. Like a no-nonsense Latina fairy godmother, she whirled into my rental and explained, “So the heels are mine because they’ll fit you better, but Mari insisted on one of her dresses since she says I gave up on myself a year ago.”

She draped a wine-colored midi dress with cap sleeves and a heart neckline over me, and I knew it could be a lot worse.

After a quick assessment, Julia said, “This will do more than fine. But don’t tell Mari I said that. And my skills might be a little rusty, but my theater days prepared me well for hair and make-up duty. So I’m at your service.”

“Hair and make-up? Is this a historical tour or a stage show?” I asked, still reeling from her whirlwind arrival.

“We’ll walk and talk. Where’s your room?” She corralled me down the hallway and started setting up as she explained, “You’re representing Morales Tours and Events. One of our new expansions is this service for more high-end corporate occasions. We need to match the vibe of the event, and, if that accent won’t get their attention, this dress and some matching lipstick can’t hurt.”

Now I know why Rico gave in when they called with this situation. Resistance would prove wasted energy. And I need to store up my strength for later today and being taken as far out of my comfort zone as we will be out at sea.

An hour after becoming a glam-up hostage, I sit in front of the vanity as Julia whirls around me, wielding both curling iron and mascara brush. She has expertly fixed up my hair in a loose chignon and added touches like berry-tinted lips while barely taking a breath between complaining about the current healthcare system and a storm forecast they have an eye on. She has now moved on to how Mari is completely off for calling her out for letting herself go and that, of course, she has not.

“And—even if I did—who can blame me?”

I nod and continue my silence. Who would risk disturbing it while she holds that curling iron?

Julia shakes her head. “It’s not like she’s the one who went through a major life change a year ago.” She scoffs as she thankfully unplugs the wand. “Rico and I, we’re each trying to figure things out as best we can.”

At the mention of Rico, I straighten in the chair. The man is an open book in so many ways, but the opportunity for some insider insight is hard to resist. I nod again, urging her on with silent understanding.

“I mean, no big deal. His career and my marriage both went up in flames, and we hopped on a plane and moved in with our grandmother. It’s been a year, but not the smoothest of transitions. Rico knocks around chatting with tourists all day, and I obsessively work from home, wearing something that’s one step from a muumuu. It’s called coping, okay?” Her lung capacity really is impressive.

“And don’t get me wrong, I love her. Adore my baby sister. But she just gets to flit around her same life and helps when she’s available, while we try to keep the business afloat with this events expansion, dragging along our singed, broken hearts?”

Her chest heaves as our eyes meet in the vanity mirror. I feel for them all and try to fill my gaze with as much sympathy as I can.

Julia shakes her head again. “Ugh, sorry to dump all that on you, Magdalena.”

“Julia, it’s alr—”

She sniffs. “It’s—it’s cuter than a muumuu. It’s a lounge dress, okay?”

I nod and squeeze her hand.

Once she is done and I help her pack her magical supplies away, I walk her to the door. Julia gives me a quick peck on my cheek, thanks me again for saving their butts, and flurries out of my rental much as she arrived.

Luckily, I’m able to have some time for preparation, both of the mental and index card kind.

After getting a glimpse of the pressures they face, I more than ever do not want to let the Moraleses down. I have been practicing all the tour talking points they emailed me—the ones that I need to somehow impart with charisma.

Bueno , I would particularly hate to let Rico down. He has not let me down yet.

This was not the first time I’ve had to apologize for being too curt with a colleague. But, admittedly, this was different. I’m having to function with a whole different emotional baseline for this project, and the vulnerability Rico continually pulls out of me—it’s concerning. I had to dig deep to get that apology out, but he deserved it.

Once I got the words out, I struggled even more because his reaction was so unguarded and earnest. That kind of reaction is also different—and new. He carries on with this research project against all odds and all my moods. How and why remain a mystery, much like Alonso’s disappearance. But both mysteries will have to wait until after tonight.

The plan is that Rico and I will board the charter boat early to see the space and decide how we will divide and conquer, each taking a tour group simultaneously.

The pier is a couple of blocks away from my place, so I walk over. Apparently, I did not take into account the time I would need to precariously wobble around in these shoes. The conquistadors did not consider twenty-first century strappy heels when these streets were paved. The last thing I want is a heel caught in a cobblestone gap and a sprained ankle, so I carefully watch where I step the whole way.

Finally, the pier and the boat are in my sights. Rico leans on the boat’s entrance and gazes out toward me. I could not care less how long he has been watching my strange waddle. Once on the pier, I quickly recover my usual stride.

However, I will not recover as quickly from the sight of Rico—eyes riveted on me—in a suit. I slow my pace and take in his dark navy fitted jacket over a white button-down shirt. Of course, the top buttons are un-buttoned, and smooth, bronzed skin peaks out.

Just when I think I can maintain my composure, he straightens and stands closer to the boarding ramp, adjusting his jacket and slowly fixing his cuffs. The large timepiece on his wrist catches the setting sun’s rays.

At some point, I stopped walking. I stand a few feet away from the ramp directly in front of him, close enough to catch how his eyes turn hazel in this light.

Words that would form coherent sentences escape me.

Rico nods in greeting and calls out, “Mari chose well.”

He is not smiling as he says it. In fact, he is as stoic as I’ve ever seen him. I look down at the dress and run the hand that does not hold my index-card-receptacle clutch over the fabric, instinctively adjusting my skirt.

Thank San Juan, I find my words. “Yes, I guess she did. Julia said not to tell her that, though.”

When has Rico ever tried to hold back a grin? He really is now.

He clears his throat. “She might’ve chosen a little too well.” And he does not seem happy about it at all.

I am not recovered enough to make sense of that comment, much less inquire into his meaning, so I don’t. Rico moves from blocking the entrance and gestures for me to come on board, so I do. The boat idles against the pier, empty except for a few of the crew.

As I walk past him, words turn into treacherous little things because they want to poke at Stoic Rico. “You cleaned up nicely,” comes out of my mouth as my eyes join the mutiny and focus on that glaringly open shirt.

Charming Rico would preen, but Stoic Rico only shifts.

“Did Mari choose your outfit, too?” I ask.

He finally grants my victory, lowering his head as he reluctantly smiles. “Nah. Dusted it off from my Wall Street days.”

I openly appraise him up and down, feeling his intent eyes on my face. Rico opens his arms and turns to give a spin, so I concede, “You wear it well.”

Satisfied with that, he adjusts his shirt collar and stands a little straighter—can’t take the preen out of the peacock. “I should hope so. Up until last year, I’d lived in one of these for most of my adult life.”

“And is wearing one only for corporate sunset tours what you wanted?”

He considers for a moment, holding my gaze. Since the sun is lower, the amber in his eyes deepens to brown. He shrugs and replies, “It’s fine—at least until I find what I want.”

“Ah, there you are! Our talented tour guides, verdad ?“ That must be the event coordinator coming down the stairs from the top deck.

It is about to be show time.

“How'd it go?” Rico hands me a welcomed bottle of water and takes a drink from his own.

Teaching history in a group setting while facing a sea breeze requires serious rehydration.

I took the group on the lower deck while Rico managed the other one on the second level’s opposite side. Clip mics, and away we went. After a forty-minute turn around the bay, the sun has gone down, and we head out into the open sea.

I’m honestly tired of my own voice at this point, but I thank him for the water and reply, “I think it went well—considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering I am not a tour guide and that I could talk hours on end about Spanish nobility lineage, but don’t ask me what river feeds this bay.”

Rico chuckles. “It’s the Piedras River. Must’ve missed that one in the tour notes.”

“That would have been helpful.”

He smiles. “I’ll make sure to add it.”

We look out at the bay and the receding coastline. After a moment, Rico shifts, and I look over to him. His brows turn down. “But seriously, Lena. Thank you. I finished a little before you and came down. You had that group in the palm of your hand. I don’t think a crowd has ever been so riveted by colonial canon crossfire.”

I shake my head and sigh. “Well, I am glad I got through it without everyone claiming they had to find the bathroom.”

“They’d have to be able to take their eyes off you.” His eyes widen as the last word comes out.

His words coincide with my next gulp of water. I sputter but manage to swallow while my brain flashes, “What? What! What?”

Rico turns toward the ocean again, grabs the railing, and clears his throat. “I mean—the Spanish really were clever about those tandem canon stations across the bay. Actually, maybe it was the excellent tour notes that pulled through for you.”

For the second time tonight, words are nowhere to be found. We finish our water, staring at the waves in silence.

I’m still reeling from all the nerves from preparing for this event and actually getting through it. Rico’s uncharacteristic reactions and perplexing comments add to the bizarre adrenaline. The things he says while wearing that suit.

Judging by his alarmed face, he regrets misplacing his word filter. But still. He sees me that way? I’m used to earning credibility and respect, but unsolicited admiration and genuine concern? And this achy, fluttery feeling? As uncharted as the Arctic.

Once I feel removed enough from our mortally awkward moment, I ask, “How did it go with your group?”

Rico releases his death grip on the railing and leans his arms on it. “It went okay. Nobody asked to turn the boat around.”

“Must be the excellent tour notes. Did you use the leper colony one?”

“Lena, I didn’t mean t—”

“Did this boat stop?”

We are no longer moving. The boat has stopped rocking. There is no wake behind us and no engine roar. The absence of the wind adds to the stillness. The sky looms starless black, and we seem to have anchored on still waters.

I’m about to ask why when I startle from a blast of music and squint my eyes from the pulsing flash of strobe lights. Guests lounging or hanging out by the railings crowd into the center of the boat and start dancing.

Rico catches my confusion and leans in to yell into my ear over the music. “Looks like this boat tour just went full party cruise.”