Complete set

I stand outside the iconic pink hotel on Ocean Drive, my heart pounding in time with my watch. The Art Deco building rises like a wedding cake against the darkening sky, curved corners and horizontal lines defining its classic Miami Beach style. Neon signs flicker to life along Ocean Drive as the sun dips toward the horizon.

My watch reads 6:52. I tap my fingers against my thigh in rhythm, counting seconds like I always do when waiting. Eight minutes early feels right. Never late, never exactly on time. Early means control.

A couple walks past, the man doing a double-take at my suit. The woman whispers something, and they both laugh. I straighten my collar, a flicker of doubt creeping in. Maybe the pink was too much.

I check my watch again. 7:01.

A group of tourists stops to photograph the building. One points at me, probably thinking I'm part of the hotel's aesthetic. I shift my weight, check my watch again. 7:03 PM.

What if she doesn't show? What if she took one look at me in that pink monstrosity and decided to stay home? What if…

"Well, look who cleaned up nice!"

I turn and my breath catches. Dee stands there in a nice white linen dress that hugs her curves before flowing loosely past her knees. Her short afro frames her face perfectly, and gold hoops dangle from her ears. She's transformed from the tired night shift worker into something gorgeous.

"You match the hotel." She grins, gesturing at my suit. "Did you plan that?"

"Pure coincidence. Though now I'm thinking of buying the place, make it a complete set."

She circles me, inspecting the suit with theatrical exaggeration. "I thought you were broke! Did you rob a disco dancer or something?"

I laugh, relieved by her teasing. "Got lucky with some side work. What about you? This doesn't look like your cleaning uniform."

"Please." She rolls her eyes. "You think I clean executive offices in my good clothes? I save the nice stuff for special occasions."

"Special, huh?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Don't get too excited. I meant 'special' like 'different from my normal boring routine.'" But her smile tells a different story.

We start walking down Ocean Drive, past the row of pastel hotels glowing under the darkening sky. Music drifts from open doors, a mix of disco and Latin rhythms. Couples stroll hand in hand along the sidewalk.

"So this is what you look like without fluorescent lighting and a honey bun in your hand," I say.

"And this is what you look like when you're not half-asleep behind the register." She nudges my arm with her shoulder. "Honestly, I barely recognized you. Where'd you learn to dress like this?"

"My uncle," I lie smoothly. "He always said dress for the life you want, not the one you have."

"Smart man."

"Cuban men know how to dress."

The restaurant comes into view: Cuban Soul. Warm light spills from its windows onto the sidewalk outside where small tables sit invitingly beneath awnings decorated with strings of lights. A subtle aroma wafts through the air, Cuban spices blending with something sweet that pulls me forward eagerly.

Inside is bustling but cozy, local families chatting animatedly while tourists savor their meals under vibrant murals depicting Cuba's lively culture. The waiter leads us to our table nestled against an interior wall adorned with framed photographs of Cuban icons from years gone by.

Once seated, Dee picks up her menu with genuine curiosity dancing across her face as she studies it intently.

"What's good here?" she asks without looking up.

"Everything!" My enthusiasm bubbles over; suddenly I'm slipping into cultural ambassador mode. "But you've got to try Ajiaco soup. It's Cuba's main national dish."

Her brow furrows slightly while still examining various options listed beneath colorful headings adorned with bold lettering, a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty evident on her face.

"Ajiaco soup?" She glances up finally, rolling the unfamiliar syllables around on her tongue like she's tasting them before even trying the dish. Her eyebrows lift with that curious expression I'm beginning to recognize as distinctly Dee.

"It's incredible! It's this hearty, soul-warming stew where everything just melts together. Tender chicken, three different kinds of potatoes, corn on the cob sliced into rounds, and these herbs that give it this unique flavor you can't find anywhere else," I explain eagerly, my hands moving in the air as if stirring an invisible pot. "They finish it with this cream and capers on top that makes the whole thing come alive. My abuela used to make it whenever someone in the family was feeling down. Trust me; you'll love it."

"I'm game!" She grins at me while closing her menu with a decisive snap, the laminated pages making a soft thwacking sound against the tabletop. Her eyes sparkle with that adventurous light I'm starting to appreciate, the way she jumps into new experiences without hesitation, like diving into unknown waters just because someone told her they might be beautiful. "If you say it's good, Mr. Cuban Food Expert, then I'm all in!"

As we chat about food preferences, her love for anything fried and sweet contrasting starkly against my more traditional Cuban tastes, the ambiance draws us closer together: soft music plays low enough not to drown out conversation yet enticing enough for heads bobbing along casually throughout diners' conversations happening all around us.

I'm about to speak when movement near the entrance catches my eye. A man walks in, his back to us, but something about his posture seems familiar. He turns slightly, and my blood freezes.

It's one of the Colombian men from the kidnapping attempt.

He hasn't seen me yet, but it's only a matter of time in this small restaurant. My perfect evening suddenly hangs by a thread.

Dee notices my expression change. "What's wrong?"

I force a smile, mind racing through options. "Nothing. Just remembered something." I glance toward the entrance again. The Colombian is being seated at a table near the door, facing exit.