A chorus of similar answers circulated the table before everyone quieted into private conversations again.
Maurice leaned over, too close, and whispered, “You look rested.”
She hummed as her body softened at his nearness.
He was more handsome in the daylight. Flecks of gold danced freely in his eyes. His hair wasn’t as dark as she’d initially thought. The silver streaks were subtle but spotlighted his strong, elegant features.
Monique sighed and redirected her focus to the purpose for them all gathering: a pre-wedding get-to-know-you luncheon.
His blink was slow, but his breathing was rapid.
“What is this you’re eating?” she asked him, pointing her menu at his untouched plate.
Maurice blinked and tilted his head. “Huh?”
“Your plate. What is it? It looks good,” she asked again.
It was like the man glitched. He blinked again as if forcing his mind back into his body. “Here,” he offered, nudging his plate into the space between them, “try it.”
“You sure?”
His yes was breathy, like in an old movie, and he was some starlet new to the big city who’d just been swept off their feet. Dreams be damned.
She liked that about him. How she could catch him off guard.
“You haven’t touched it, though.” Monique poked at his fish, rice, and peas. It felt like eons since she’d enjoyed food. Most days, treatments had either left her too exhausted or too nauseous to eat well.
His answer was cool breath gliding over her cheek on a whisper. “I was waiting for you.”
A prickle shimmied through her nervous system, and she shifted in her chair.
Her mouth watered. Monique forced her attention back to the plate of food, and she took a taste. Her eyes closed as she savored the flavors. Back home, food like this was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself. Her sigh released the stiffness in her body and replaced it with a warm fluidity that rippled and surged in her veins.
San Juan had aroused her appetite.
The weight of eyes on her brought her back to awareness. She had an audience.
She licked her lips. Bronzed pink spread across Maurice’s face and down into the open collar of his ridiculously patterned linen shirt.
He was feeling her.
Suddenly, the idea of a vacation fling wasn’t so obscene anymore. Flings were driven by pheromones, not feelings. She could do this. A vacation tryst. Puerto Rican beaches and hillsides, add Mo, carry the rum and mofongo, subtract her draws. That could add up to a memorable trip.
Her lady bits pulsed in agreement, and Monique flinched in her seat at the prodigal sensation.
The restaurant bubbled with energy. The shift was as if the staff could read her mind and had decided to cheer her on. A server sidled up to them and asked Monique, “Have you decided?”
Yeah, she’d decided.
Monique shrugged. “Whatever can be out the quickest is fine. Apparently, we have a tight itinerary,” she said, darting a playful smile at her cousin.
The server nodded and sped away, only to return moments later with a beautiful plate of roasted pork shoulder topped with golden-brown chicharrón. “Pernil for the Señora,” he said.
The pigeon peas and rice emitted a cartoonish swirl of steam, snatching all of Monique’s senses. Her stomach growled loudly, drowning out her thanks.
The table fell into a silence that only good food could induce. But Maurice barely touched his food. His mouth remained in a tight line.
“You don’t like it?” Monique asked, nudging him with her shoulder. Her port wound throbbed in protest.