CHAPTER 4Monique
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, Señor,” 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.