Page 14 of Plus One

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 callsmeMo.”

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. “Señor 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 Señor Lane requested specific room assignments.”

The few sips of coffee she’d had worked their way back up her throat. Monique coughed out, “Señor 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?Youknow 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.