Monique took a deep breath and let her eyes close again, shutting out the hunger she thought she saw in Maurice’s eyes.
He was a good guy. A dutiful guy who had beenassignedto her. But his hold on her—or was she holding him?—pulsed with something that felt nothing like obligation.
The façade of possibility shattered completely when Maurice’s wrist vibrated again.
Monique slid her arms from his grip. “You need to get that?”
He didn’t move away and answered without looking at his watch. “No.”
Heat and humidity swelled around them, between them. Overwhelming her. She took a step back, bumping into the gate.
His hand was on her again, at her waist, searing through the cotton of her dress.
Rolling out of his reach with moves that rivaled Willie Gault in his heyday, Monique put as much distance between them as possible.
“I’m gonna”—she jabbed her thumb behind her—“get some air, see the city a bit.” She turned and moved as fast as her gym shoes could carry her. Away from him and all the atmosphere that confused her nervous system into believing in fairy tales.
Maurice was a complication. And Monique would never willingly add complications to her already complicated life.
Lights twinkled and danced, drawing Monique out into the darkening streets of Old San Juan. Festive banners in red, silver, and gold caught the ocean wind, rippling as if waving hello.
Monique brought her camera to her eye and took aim. In the distance, a tower stood regal and lonesome above the roof lines.
Her shutter clicked in time with the holiday music that filled the streets.
That was the way she liked to move—camera out. No plan, just looking. At the pushcart draped in lights, the vendor disappeared behind the glare. At a doorway painted a blue she’d only seen in Humboldt Park, some ancestor of Chicago’s blue. At a cat on a third-story windowsill, surveying the domain below.
Having her camera gave her a reason to be out and to be alone. No explanations. Just herseeing.
Then a group of tourists wearing glittered party hats stumbled through her shot, singing off-key. Monique stepped back, almost missing the curb.
“I gotchu,” Maurice said behind her, his hand at her elbow again.
Touching her there, on her bare skin, shouldn’t have sent a thrill through her body. But it did. Dear God, she was in trouble.
“Thanks,” she said, going for unaffected. But how could she when he stood there solid against the storm churning inside her?
A long musical bellow from a cruise ship turned both their attentions toward the bay.
“Wanna go see?” she asked him, his eyes wide and curious. She didn’t wait for Maurice to respond.
Around them, the city was dressed up. Monique stopped in front of a section of wall where the stucco had peeled away and raised her camera. She tried one angle and another. The Christmas lights caught the rough surface in a way that was worth preserving. But the shot just wasn’t working. Maurice lingered a few paces behind.
“What are you seeing?” he asked, stepping closer.
Cycling through the last few shots, she angled the camera’s screen toward him while pointing with her finger at a wall in front of them. “See the way the Christmas lights hit the peeling paint here? All the colors remind me of an opal.”
Maurice leaned in to look at the screen, then straightened and looked at the wall. He was quiet for a beat.
“How did you even notice that?” He stepped away from her and placed his hand on a missing chunk of stucco where the walls met, revealing layers of time like a tree’s rings. “It’s so small.” He tipped his head from side to side, playing with the light. “Interesting.”
His hand lingered on that spot as he smiled up at her.
“Let’s keep going.” Monique shrugged and turned away, not waiting for him to respond.
Maurice walked beside her on the narrow streets, so close that their arms brushed from time to time, but neither of them acknowledged the contact or stepped away.
Walking the hilly streets awakened something in her legs and lungs. “I missed this,” she said on a sigh.