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After sitting and ordering our drinks, Dayi starts asking me a million questions about my past and the reason I moved to Miami. I skip over the Carmine bit and tell her I moved here for the weather and the Latin flair, which is all true.
Dayi is Miami to the core. Born in Cuba, she came to Miami when she was two years old, the daughter of Cuban exiles, like so many living in South Florida. Her curls drape down her back, the dark locks a stark contrast to her pale skin and blazing green eyes. She’s short, about five feet five, yet voluptuous, thick, curvy, and wears dresses that hug her in all the right places. Dayi is beautiful and she knows it.
“Tell me about you Dayi, what’s your story?”
“I’m recently single and looking for an apartment. I’m finally moving out of my parents’ house, which they’re not happy about. I’m twenty-six and they’re giving me a lot of shit for leaving.”
“Really, why’s that?”
“It’s common for Cuban kids to live with their family for years into adulthood. They’d rather me be home, close to them.”
“If my mom had a choice, I would live with her too. At some point we gotta do our own thing.”
My phone vibrates and when I peer at it, I see a text message alert from Amaury.
Amaury:Te extraño, whenI can see you again?
A smile spreads across my face as I read his words.
Sol:Actually, I want one of those cases for the back of my Vespa. Can I stop by the shop later?
Amaury:Dale, see you later.
I place the phone back on the table and lift my eyes to meet Dayi’s. “Who you texting with that makes you light up?” she asks.
“A guy I met.”
“Girl, spill. I need something juicy in my life.”
I park the scooter in the shade outside of 305 Scoots and walk into the shop expecting to find Amaury in the showroom, but there’s no one there. There’s music coming from the back, so I cross the showroom floor to the door leading into the garage and peer around the corner.
Amaury’s back is to me, and I decide to watch him. He has a mint-colored Vespa on a lift and is leaning in while doing something with the engine. His jeans are held up by a belt but his lower back peeks out. His white t-shirt is snug around his biceps, accentuating the corded muscles on his golden-brown arms. I can’t wait to feel the strength of his arms around me, the sensation of his skin up against mine. Fuck me is this man sexy. Merely watching him sends a tingle through me. He shifts his body, but still doesn’t see me. His long straight nose is dripping sweat and he’s biting his lip in concentration. I’m so turned on just staring at him. The butterflies in my stomach flutter relentlessly. I know when we finally sleep together, I’m going to come undone.
“¡Coño!” he yells, dropping the wrench he was holding and starts shaking his right hand.
“Did you hurt yourself?” I ask, scurrying across the garage floor to get closer to him.
His head swiftly turns to me. “How long you been here?” He grabs a rag hanging from his back pocket and wipes his face with it.
“A few minutes. I was standing over by the door.” I gesture my head toward the door behind me.
“Doing what?” He takes the last few steps, closing the gap between us.
“Sorry, I should’ve told you I was here.” I pull a curl into my right hand and begin twirling it.
“You no have to say sorry. You can surprise me anytime you like.Ahoratell me, what were you doing?”
“Watching you.” I lick my lips.
“¿Qué viste?” he asks, smirking. What did I see? More like what was I dreaming about? I cannot tell him I was picturing his arms wrapped around me, as we both lay naked.
“White is a good color on you, you should wear it more often.”
“That’s it?” he says, pursing his lips and squinting.
I nod and smirk at the same time.
“No te creo,” he whispers into my ear before scurrying across the floor and disappearing through the door I just came in. I wouldn’t believe me either, I’m a terrible liar and have no game face.
