His voice carried the accented sound of Spanish pronunciation, and she wondered about his background.
“You noticed,” she said, ridiculously pleased by his observation. “Our buyer tries to have a good selection for our customers.”
“Well, I can assure you, it’s greatly appreciated.” He set a history tome of about six hundred pages on the counter and pulled a wallet from his back pocket. “I ordered a copy of The Federalist Papers the first time I came in, and I received a call that it has arrived.”
“Okay. What was your last name again? Diaz, right?”
As if she needed to ask. She had memorized his name and phone number from that very day when he placed the order. By the second time he’d come in and purchased a book, she’d memorized his credit card digits.
“That’s right.”
Shanice rubbed sweaty hands down her hips.
His eyes, the color of a deep, dark umber, flicked over the movement before coming back to her face. Air trapped in her throat and tension tightened in the space between them.
“One moment,” she whispered, because just like that, she’d lost her voice. She turned away and briefly closed her eyes.
Pretending to search the shelves though she knew exactly where his book was located, she allowed herself a few seconds to regroup.
“Here we go,” she said, holding up the book.
She handed it to him and he turned it over in his hand, as if admiring a piece of fine art. He had large hands with long, thick fingers. “Bueno.”
She lived for the sound of his voice, with its Spanish lilt, but delighted even more when he said a word or two in his native tongue.
Shanice rang up the two purchases and swiped the card.
She handed over the receipt, and after he’d signed his name, she bagged the books in one of their plastic sacks.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Diaz.”
“Please, call me Vicente.”
She blushed. “Vicente.”
“You work a lot. Every time I come in, you’re behind this counter.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not really work when you love what you do,” Shanice said. Feeling a surge of boldness, she added, “Where are you from?”
“Ah, the accent, eh? I haven’t been able to shake it, no matter how hard I try.” He shook his head as if disappointed.
“You shouldn’t try to lose it. It’s….nice.”
“Thank you. I’m from Cuba—Havana, to be exact.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About fourteen years now. How about you—have you lived in Miami long?”
“Not long. I moved here from Texas a couple of months ago.”
“Why here?”
She paused, unsure how to answer. She definitely couldn’t tell the truth. “I, uh, needed a change. I have family outside of Houston, but my mother moved back to Arizona, where she’s from, and my father died a few years ago. There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around, and Miami is beautiful. Great people, beautiful beaches—I may never leave.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
“I’m better now.” Shanice played with a pen on the counter. “Um, what kind of work do you do?”
He winced. “Nothing interesting. I’m a boring forensic accountant.”
“Sounds interesting to me. How is forensic accounting different from regular accounting?”
“My career is a specialty, where we dig deep into the financials to uncover fraud.”
Shanice’s face flushed hot at the words dig deep. She swallowed. “Fascinating,” she croaked.
“You think so? You’re the first woman to ever call my work fascinating.” His eyes studied her with interest.
“Really? I bet you have all kinds of stories to tell.”
“I do, but like I said, most women…” He shrugged.
She couldn’t believe this man had difficulty finding interested women. First of all, were they blind? Did they not notice the hollowed cheeks that emphasized his high cheekbones, or the hard jawline and kissable-looking lips? Second of all, she really did believe his work must be interesting.
“You’ve probably met the wrong kind of women,” Shanice said. Then she froze—her heart, her blood, her entire body. She stared at him. Had she said too much?
He didn’t respond right away, and a brief moment of awkward silence enveloped them until he spoke again. “Maybe I have,” he said quietly.
Her heart restarted.
“It was nice talking to you…” His eyes fell to the name tag over her left breast. “Shanice. Did I say that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Shanice,” he murmured again, as if savoring the word. “I should get going. I have a long night ahead with all this reading.”
What? He didn’t have plans? Neither did she—if you didn’t count reading her latest book, too. They were two sides of the same coin.
“Good night,” she said, acutely disappointed their conversation was coming to an end. But she quietly rejoiced because it was the longest one they’d had, and she learned a little about him in those few minutes.
He hesitated, or so it seemed, before he nodded and walked away. And oh, how she enjoyed watching him walk away.
Shanice bit her bottom lip.
No ring on his finger, and probably no girlfriend, either. He liked to read. He was an accountant. Safe. Much different from the life she’d escaped in Texas.
If she were going to start dating again, he was darn near perfect.
4
Shanice drove her blue Ford Taurus slowly down the quiet street to the house where she rented a room. Most of the homes were two-story dwellings with limited yard space and contained families—except for the one directly across the street.
The owner of that one was a twenty-five-year-old who ran a tech company out of his house. He seemed to have a party every night. Cars always lined both sides of the street, and on nights he and his friends hung outside on the back deck, the scent of weed filled the air.
Shanice groaned quietly as she pulled up. Once again, he had lots of company over, forcing her to drive slowly to avoid hitting one of the cars. Two scantily clad women giggled as they ran up to his door arm-in-arm.
She pulled into the driveway and hit the garage door opener. As the door slowly rose, she watched the women in the rear-view mirror. A slender man opened the door from the inside, and she caught a glimpse of the foyer and a man and woman in a liplock near the stairs before the door closed again.
She couldn’t help being a little jealous. At least they had something to do on a Friday night. She parked her car next to Beatrice’s white Mercedes and entered the kitchen. Beatrice was in there wearing a silk robe, her gray hair tucked under a white silk night cap, one of at least ten she owned. She stood in front of the huge island in the middle of the spacious kitchen eating grapes in a bowl. Her Corgi, Charlie, looked quite relaxed—the opposite of his usual playful self—tucked under her left arm.
“Good night, Beatrice. Hey, Charlie.”
“Good night, hon,” Beatrice said, smiling fondly at her.
Beatrice was a godsend and treated Shanice like family. When Shanice started working for her at the bookstore and she learned that Shanice was staying at a motel, she offered to rent her a room in her house. The arrangement worked perfectly for Shanice.