Chapter 4 Monique
The fragrant steam and warmth that rippled from her mug calmed her. The perpetual ache in her bones eased in increments. Relief pushed an audible sigh past her lips. Puerto Rico ain’t so bad.
“Is it coffee or is it manna?” a voice as rich and smooth as the dark liquid in her mug said from above her.
A man stood at her table, backlit by the warm amber light, his silhouette haloed in gold against something cooler hovering above. She blinked, struggling to focus in the competing glows.
Had she died? Was this an angel? I’m not ready for this visitation. Monique shook her head and took a long swallow of coffee. “I’m over-tired. Hallucinating.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things,” the voice said, warm and amused, “but a hallucination? That’s a first.”
Her face heated. “Did I say that out loud?” Great, now she could add bone-deep embarrassment to today’s list of emotions. Damn Dr. Tedrow and his therapy disguised as a support group.
The man shifted his posture, and the light changed. Not an angel, simply a man.
Monique blinked again, her vision recalibrating to salt-and-pepper closely cropped hair at the temples, warm brown skin. And eyes… light and watching her with something she couldn’t decide was amusement or concern.
A mouth that suddenly had her craving a papaya smoothie said, “No harm done.”
She licked her lips, and his mouth—framed by a well-manicured landscape of facial hair—pressed into a line.
What was that? Until this moment, Monique hadn’t entertained the idea of a vacation fling. Not when she didn’t even know how arousal worked after being forced into sudden, premature menopause. But gazing at this man, she felt something familiar yet foreign. So much for that expanded vocabulary.
The man shifted his bag on his shoulder. He looked like someone passing through. Casual. Warm. Open. Then he closed the door in her face.
Seriously, what the hell?
Someone dressed in chef’s white breezed into the dining room from the kitchen with a plate of pastries.
“Buenos días. Some pastelillitos, compliments of the house.” They placed the platter of warm carbohydrates on the table, then produced a carafe of coffee and an empty mug, setting it across from Monique. “Please enjoy.”
“Oh, I’m not—” the man started.
“I insist, Senor,” they said, before disappearing behind the swinging kitchen doors.
The stranger stood frozen, gripping the strap of his bag as if letting go would cause him to burst into flames.
Monique tried to give him a disarming smile. “Have a seat. Took a red-eye?”
He glanced around the café again, perhaps finally noticing that hers was the only table the staff opened for service. Chairs sat overturned and candles remained cold, waiting for a certain hour to strike. “Well, the clerk said it wouldn’t be too long for my room.”
In other words: he’d rather stand in the lobby than sit with her.
Bet. In the window’s reflection, Monique watched him hang his sleek, business-style backpack on the back of the chair before easing himself down.
Careful. As if the chair were rigged for explosives or something.
Monique couldn’t help but notice how the muscles under his Hawaiian-style shirt flexed and extended as he settled.
She gripped her stomach to stop the sudden fluttering.
He sat. Stiff and uncertain. His attention darted from one corner of the restaurant to the other. Landing everywhere but on Monique.
She grabbed a pastry and peeled back a layer, pissed that this guy had inspired something in her and snuffed it out in less than three minutes. Who did he think he was?
“Yes,” he said suddenly. “Red-eye. Just in town for a few days.” He cleared his throat. “You heading out? I see your suitcase.”
“Checking in. I’d rather sit here and wait for check-in than pay for an extra night and do that whole late arrival thing.”
His posture relaxed ever so slightly. “So, you’re staying.”
Was he relieved? “For a couple of days,” she said carefully.
“That’s what’s up. Me too.” He reached for the carafe and poured himself a cup of coffee. His large hands were like baseball mitts against the small mug. Dark, thick, and scarred knuckles stood out against his clean and trimmed nails. He had working hands, like her grandfather.
They sat in silence as the sunrise burned away the night. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t entirely awkward either. Questions wafted between them, unspoken in the quiet, neither of them brave enough to speak them.
Monique shifted in her seat, and he looked up. “I’m Mo.”
“I’m Mo,” he said at the same time, right hand extended across the table.
They both stopped and cocked their heads, staring.
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“ ’Fraid not.” His hand remained outstretched.
She put her hand in his. “Monique. Everybody calls me Mo.”
His palm was warm, calloused, tender as he squeezed. “I’m Maurice, but everybody calls me Mo.”
Their hands hovered entwined between them for longer than necessary, with both of them staring between their joined hands and their faces.
“Well,” Monique said, not letting go. “I guess we share more than a name.”
His thumb brushed against her knuckle, subtle. Not exactly accidental. “How so?” He did not release her hand.
The kitchen door swung open, flooding them with artificial light like a camera flash as a kitchen worker hustled out, balancing a tower of glasses on a tray.
Caught, they released their hands.
Maurice scratched at his beard and quietly said, “What are the odds?”
“Right? Small world.”
“Too small.” He huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head, slow and gentle.
Monique’s stomach started fluttering again. She wanted to know why he was there. Where he was from and what he was doing later. The voice in Monique’s head sounded like hers but felt like someone else’s. “What’re you—”
Heels clicked on the tiles as if the wearer were trying to be discreet. “Senor Martín.”
They both looked up. The clerk stood at the table with two key cards in hand, her smile bright and well-practiced. “Good news. Your room is available.”
Maurice glanced at the keys and then at Monique. “Actually,” he began, sitting up taller, “she was here first. She can take the room.”
The clerk’s smile slipped. “But Senor Lane requested specific room assignments.”
The few sips of coffee she’d had worked their way back up her throat. Monique coughed out, “Senor Lane?” She leaned forward. “Tommie Lane?”
Maurice quirked an eyebrow. “You know him?”
“That’s my cousin. I’m here for his wedding.”
“Hmm,” he grunted, nodding slowly. His mouth fell open—but he quickly schooled his face and cleared his throat. “I’m the best man and officiant.”
Monique coughed again, nausea tap dancing on the butterflies in her stomach as her mind reeled.
Tommie and Aunt Don insisting she come all the way out here.
The group chat full of numbers she didn’t know.
And now, the man she’d just been—what, flirting with?
—wasn’t just invited, he was in the wedding.
“So? You know Tommie?” she asked, slowly, reaching into her purse for antacids.
“Been best friends since we were kids.”
Best friends. Of course, he was. Tommie didn’t do anything ordinary. She wouldn’t put it past him that he orchestrated this whole—
“Sir, your room,” the clerk pressed, placing the keys in front of him.
Maurice stood. “Give her the room. I can wait.”
“Senor, you can’t—”
“It’s fine.” His eyes met Monique’s, sliding the cards in front of her. “What Tommie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He winked at her and pulled his bag onto his shoulder.
“I’ll look around until another room is ready for me. That cool with you?” He spoke to the clerk but was looking at Monique.
The clerk nodded, her expression shifting to conspiratorial. “As you wish, Senor. Also, the chapel is exquisite at sunrise.”
His attention never left Monique. “I bet it is.”
Monique picked up the key cards with tremoring fingers and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He turned to follow the clerk, then paused. “See you ’round, Mo.”
“See ya ’round, Mo.” She popped a couple of the chalky antacid tablets into her mouth and chewed. Relief was almost instant but was far from satisfying. She rubbed at her chest as she took a few swallows from her water bottle.
He chuckled, and his cheeks pinked as the clerk led him away, reciting a well-practiced script.
Monique shook her head and waved him—Senor Martín, Mo, Maurice—off.
Her plan to get through the wedding unnoticed had already backfired. The goal had been to smile politely, maintain small talk, take pictures, and if necessary, dance before disappearing back to Chicago without anyone getting too curious.
But now, it was Monique who was curious. She’d met a man who’d given up his room without a second thought… for her… a stranger.
Except now they weren’t strangers. No, they were more than that. She wasn’t sure what to call it, but strangers didn’t fit anymore. Monique chuckled under her breath and grabbed her suitcase. “Get it together. He’s just a good dude. They do still exist.”
He was a good dude who looked at her like she was the most interesting person he’d ever met, and who happened to be her cousin’s best friend who she’d be seeing consistently for the next four days.
The lobby was quiet and still. Maurice and the clerk had disappeared down some hallway.
She shook her head, startled at the uncharacteristic eagerness to know where Maurice went. Pressing the elevator button, she pulled in a long breath. “Thomas Lane, Jr., what in the world are you trying to pull?”