Page 15 of Plus One

Maurice stood. “Give her the room. I can wait.”

“Señor, 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, Señor. 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—Señor 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?”

CHAPTER 5Maurice

The hotel receptionist, whose name Maurice learned was Camora, led him through a portrait-lined corridor that chronicled the hotel’s history. She talked about Spanish colonial architecture and Conquistadors.

At least that was what he assumed she was talking about. Maurice’s mind was elsewhere.

We share more than a name.

Her hand had been warm and soft in his. Her gaze curious, but not in the way his reentry program benefactors sometimes looked upon men like him, who touched him as if they’d dared themselves to.

Monique was simplypresent. She’d asked for nothing except the same.

He turned his hands one over the other, cataloguing the memory of her touch.

“Señor Martín?”

Maurice blinked into awareness. They’d stopped at a cornerstone polished smooth by time and countless hands standing sentinel beside a set of carved wooden doors.

Camora smiled wide. “If you’d come this way, I’m sure you’ll appreciate what I have to show you next.” She pushed the towering doors open. The hinges creaked with centuries of experience.

The chapel was small. Intimate. The pitched ceiling and dark exposed beams canopied aged wooden pews. Maurice could imagine the colors painted on the white, stucco walls when the sun was high and pouring through the stained glass windows.

Now, in the early morning light, sunlight cast muted colors over the stone floor and white linens that draped the altar.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, stepping closer to the altar. His attention lingered on the stands of candles and holiday décor. A quiet hum fell over him in an awareness of the largeness of the world, of a universe so vast it made coincidence feel like providence.