A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,14

against a wall like that would draw blood.

I inch through streets so narrow that bike riders would brush shoulders. It’s all here: coffee houses, shops, little cafés, cars zooming through on the wrong side of the road. By the time I reach a bustling main street, I’m not really exercising anymore so much as sightseeing. I also need to figure out where I am.

“Lila, isn’t it? From the Crow?”

Dozens of streets for my Nikes to wander, but I end up right in front of… I look up from my phone and confirm. Orion Maxwell’s five feet away, plastic safety goggles pushed back over his head. He’s shed the leather bomber and is wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and blue rubber gloves. “Err, hi.”

“You’re in my batter bowl now,” he says and when my brows drop, adds, “my street,” and when I feel my nose wrinkle, he smiles and points across the nearest intersection. “Our shop’s just there.”

I follow his hand to a storefront dressed in white paneled wood. Even from here I can make out the large scripted M resting over a stylized leaf. Maxwell’s Tea Shop. “If your shop’s over there, then why are you…?” More like what is he? A spray bottle sits near his rugged boots, along with a filled bucket and a small assortment of brushes and sponges.

A shadow crosses his face. “Victoria’s store was tagged.” He grabs a brush and points it at what is now nothing more than a watery black blob over a brick wall. “Had to be last night and I wanted to see to it before she opens up. We’re finding it more and more around here lately.”

I step back, eying the windows. Turned out mannequins pose in various outfits. I read the name etched onto the glass out loud. “Come Around Again. Cool name for a secondhand shop. But it’s not yours, so why are you on graffiti cleanup?”

He wets the scrub brush and takes to the wall. “Looking out for one another. It’s what we do.”

Warmth—only a quarter teaspoon—settles over my damp skin. I step to the right when Orion turns from the wall and attempts to step left. He avoids me deftly.

“Sorry,” he says and grabs a wet sponge. He uses a circular motion to remove traces of black from grout.

“I’ve noticed that you, and by you, I mean the English, say that a lot.” Not excuse me or pardon. Only sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Another thing we do.” Eyes trained on paint removal, he doesn’t even look at me. But one edge of his mouth jerks up. “You’re here visiting, I take it?”

“Yeah, from Florida. Miami.” The words, icing on my tongue. “Cate is my mom’s cousin, but they grew up like sisters. And best friends.”

Now he turns through a single nod. “Gordon’s one of mine. You’re Venezuelan, then, like Mrs. Wallace?”

First I say, “Cuban.” Then I give him the sixty-second version of my summer stay and my role at Panadería La Paloma. I leave out my Celsius oven disaster and Abuela and the rest of the trifecta.

A low chuckle rattles his chest. “And you’ve already managed to infiltrate Polly’s kitchen? I’m impressed. How’d you swing that?”

“It’s what I do.”

Now a smile, the kind where quick lips plus gleaming teeth plus dimpled cheeks equals hazard. For some girls. Not me. Obviously. “Earlier, you looked lost,” he says.

“Oh, I was just deciding whether to head back to the Crow, or to check out a vintage record shop Gordon mentioned.”

“Yeah—Farley’s,” he says. “The inn’s straight up Kingsgate or St. Cross. About a twenty-minute walk or as fast as you can run it.” He tips his head toward the opposite direction I walked in from. “Farley’s is a few streets that way. You’re into classic vinyl?”

“My sister is.” I tuck stray hair under my headband. “Though she helped my parents plan this three-month ‘dream vacation,’ so I’m not sure she’s worthy of souvenirs.”

He actually looks hurt. “What’s wrong with England? Or are you opposed to Winchester in particular?”

I blow out a sharp breath. “It’s not Miami.”

“Hardly. But as I see it, you being here for so long against your will is due to one of four reasons.” Orion splashes a full bucket of water over the wall. The paint is gone. “Correction, let’s make that three reasons. The number four is considered unlucky in China.”

“Because England and China are the same thing.”

“Can’t be too careful.” He whips off the gloves. “So, reasons. One, a problem with your passport.