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I plaster on my very best smile and walk towards him. “Hey,” I say sweetly. His eyes grow wide as he realizes he’s absolutely busted.
“Hey,” he says sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “What are you still doing here?”
“Well, I’m sure you want to explore, so I made a full itinerary of Miami’s hottest landmarks for us to go and look at today to keep us busy before the meeting.”
“Oh,” he sighs, his entire body slumping like I've just hit him in the stomach.
It can't be as bad as that. Even if he did just want to go and drink this afternoon, I'm not the worst company in the world. “So, do you need anything else?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says, dejected and pouting just a little, like he thinks I may take pity on him. He's not going to get that lucky, though.
“I figured you'd be too tired for museums. So, instead, I thought we could go for a walk around the city. There's some great murals and statues that I think you would enjoy.”
Miles doesn’t look convinced, his lips twisting into a frown. “Oh, really?”
“Come on. I'll drive.” I turn towards the door, keeping an eye on him, not trusting him not to make a break for it when I'm looking the other way. He trudges after me like a sad child or a grumpy teenager.
We step out into the sun and he squints in the light. It's not too hot, but I'm certain that if he was wearing a hoodie, he would have the hood up. He has that kind of aura to him, like he’s a kid who feels like all the wrongs of the world are happening to him and he has to listen to angry music to cope.
I open the car door for him and shut it behind him as he sits down. He gives me a look as if to say, why don’t you trust me to do anything for myself? But if he sat and thought about it for more than three seconds, I think the answer would become self-evident. He’s already tried to elude me once. I have to stay one step ahead of him. And that means trying to outthink him.
Fortunately, that's not too hard, because his thought processes aren’t as smart as he clearly thinks they are.
We barely talk as we drive towards the city. His apartment is already relatively downtown, so it’s not too far to go, and I know the best route to go to avoid most of the traffic. Eventually, I pull into a parking lot so we can hop on the trolley. It seems easier to me than trying to drive between locations.
But his face falls as he notices the stop. “I didn't realize Miami had a tram.”
“It's more like a bus,” I say.
“Oh,” he says again, a syllable that is going to get real annoying real quick. “Can't we just drive there?”
“I thought you had public transportation in the UK?”
He shrugs. “Why get on a train when you could drive?”
“Why drive,” I counter, “when you can get someone else to do it so you can stare out the window the whole time?” I realize my argument isn't very persuasive because he would be the one looking out the window the whole time anyway whether I drive or not. But I was kind of looking forward to not having to be his personal chauffeur.
I don’t feel like the argument, so I just grit my teeth and turn the engine back on. This day is just getting better and better.
When we finally arrive at the first destination, I jump out of my seat, glad to be getting out of the car. The temperature in there was icy cold and not just because of the AC.
“Where are we?” Miles asks.
I lead him around the corner into the sun and can’t help but smile. It could not be a better day for this at least. It's warm and just a little bit breezy. If I didn't have to babysit this man, I'd probably go sunbathing. I'd like nothing more than to sit back on the beach, shut my eyes and soak up the golden rays right now, maybe even read a book. Maybe have a cocktail too, as a treat. But I can't have any of those things because I've got Miles.
“We’re in Wynwood,” I say, leading him towards one of my favorite pieces of wall art. “Look, here. This is the Cuban flag. It’s a couple of years old now, but it was awesome to watch it appear. It’s a hundred and forty feet wide and it’s the biggest Cuban flag ever painted in the States, apparently. And they did it all in a couple of days. It’s really impressive.”
He blinks at me like he's surprised I know this stuff. In all honesty, I mostly know it because I memorized some of the travel brochures about five hours ago. But I can't complain about him finding me impressive. There are worse ways you could describe me.
“Is that it?” He peers at the art, tracing the wave with his eyes before shrugging. “It’s just a painting, innit.”
“Well, yes, but…” I stammer. Not the reaction I expected. “It was painted after protests in La Havana, as a show of solidarity. It’s very symbolic.”
“Cool,” he says, turning back to me. “Now what?”
“Well… I…” I can't even form the words to make a response to that. What does he want from me? Even more entertainment? I'm doing the best I can. “There’s more murals here, or we can go down to the water, have a look at the beach.”
Miles just shrugs again. His shoulders must be solid muscle from the amount of shrugging he does. “Do we have to walk? It’s too hot out.”
