I stand in the kitchen at Rafa’s rental house and peer into two pots on the stove. One holds tomato sauce and the other, boiling water. It's the fifth time I've checked the pots. He’s late, and it’s making me nervous.

I stir a pot with a wooden spoon, losing myself in dark thoughts as I look at the bubbles. Why am I stirring water? Where is he? The interview should have only lasted for an hour or two, and he’s been gone much longer. I pick up my phone. It’s been closer to four hours. I start to call, then hang up.

No. He doesn’t need me checking up on him. I scroll through my emails on my iPhone, and a call pops up. It’s Diana, who doesn’t even bother saying hello.

“I think our new owner has quite the reporting talent.” She’s out of breath.

“Um. What do you mean by that?” I turn to the pasta sauce and run a spoon through it, scowling into the pot.

“I ran into Ethan on the way out of the building. Apparently Rafa and the reporter wanted to stay longer to talk to the kids. He spent hours talking to everyone in Spanish. Made them feel really comfortable, Ethan said. Apparently they got some great details for a story about how the kids are working in the fields illegally. Rafa went back to the newsroom to discuss the story with everyone and ended up buying barbecue for the night desk.”

“Really? That’s…wonderful.” I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but this floors me. Rafa? Excited about immigrant kids? Buying BBQ? Who is this man who bought my newspaper?

“What are you up to?” Diana asks.

“Uh, making pasta sauce.” I try to sound casual. I don’t want to tell Diana yet that I’m sleeping with Rafa again.

“Wait, what? From scratch?”

The water boils over and onto the sleek, expensive gas stove. I scramble to move the pot aside, trying not to burn myself. “Uh, yeah.”

“What? You don’t make sauce from scratch. You usually have your juicer going at this time of night. Hold on. Are you cooking for Rafael? Are you at home?”

I sigh. “I’m at Rafael’s rental house.”

“WHAAAAT?”

I move away from the stove and hold my cell a foot from my ear at the sound of Diana’s screech. “Calm down. You’re getting more dramatic as you get closer to giving birth. It’s fine. We’re hanging out.”

Diana snorts. “You and Rafael are incapable of hanging out. If you’re at his house on a Friday night, cooking dinner, then you’re certainly fucking him. I knew it! I saw him staring at your ass the other day.”

I sigh while Diana whoops. “Girl, for selfish reasons, I’m glad he’s helping the paper. And truly, I’d like for you to resolve your issues with him. You loved him. Tell him how you feel. Don’t hold back. Remember, it’s better to be happy than right. Don’t hold grudges.”

I hear the courtyard door slam, which means Rafa’s back. “Thanks. You’re like my personal, foul-mouthed self-help book. I need to go. Don’t forget to do your yogic birth breathing.”

I hang up and busy myself by chopping olives. He sweeps in and throws his computer bag, jacket, and tie on the table in a pile. I can tell he’s excited by the way he gestures broadly with his hands.

“That was incredible. Justine. Those children. Some of them are skipping school to pick potatoes. A few others are picking tobacco. I didn’t even know we had tobacco farms in Florida. One kid got nicotine poisoning, and he’s fifteen. Fifteen. We need to do something about this.”

I nod, impressed. Maybe there’s a chance that he truly believed all of those passionate and lofty words he’d said to my staff earlier in the week. Maybe he sees the potential for the paper and will work with me to make it great again.

Rafa comes to the stove and looks into the pasta pot. “I won’t be eating. I had ribs with the desk.”

I bite back a smile. He’s even using newsroom lingo now. The desk. How adorable.

“Another boy was eight. He’s never been to school. That’s not even legal. I guess I’ve always known that people are exploited in agriculture, but to see it firsthand, it’s mind-blowing.”

“I take it that the translation went well?”

Rafael nods and looks lost in thought. I kiss his cheek and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you for doing that, Rafa. I appreciate it. You bailed us out.”

“We need to help those kids. I’m thinking about donating money to the group.”

I shake my head as he pulls away. “We need to talk about that. It might be a conflict of interest now that you’re involved with the story. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

He stares at me hard. “Justine. Those kids don’t have anyone.”

I reply in an even tone of voice, knowing that this is probably a sensitive topic for him. “Rafael, I know this is something you feel strongly about. But now that you own a newspaper, there are some ethical guidelines…”

“Screw the ethics, Justine. These kids need help. I think I’m in a unique position to know what’s going on here. Except I had more privileges because I was Cuban and I had special status when I came to Florida.” He drums his fingers on the counter, his gaze steely.

I shoot him a knowing glance and am about to retort, but think better of it when I see how his eyes droop. He looks tired and stressed-out. I won’t push him tonight. Doing an intense interview can be exhausting. I put my hand to his cheek.

“Now do you see why I love journalism? Why it’s important to save the paper? If The Times wasn’t around, who would write about this?”

Nodding, he strides out of the room and upstairs with a troubled expression on his face.

* * *

I give Rafa some space after hearing him call his assistant in Miami and telling him about the migrant kids. I retreat to the huge home’s library to do some work for a an hour, then realizing it's late, emerge to find Rafa sprawled on the sofa downstairs. He’s mindlessly clicking through TV channels and munching on something out of a bowl while drinking a bottle of expensive craft beer that I’d bought. Because he’s wearing a simple T-shirt and sweats, he looks more like the college guy I dated than a billionaire.

I peer at his snack. “Plantains?”

“Si, muñeca.”

I grin. He’d always loved the fried chips. On my way past him, I snag a couple and crunch.

“I didn’t think you watched TV.” I’m wearing a little white silk kimono with pink flowers that he’d bought and had delivered to me.

“I don’t,” he grunts. “I’m trying to get my mind off those kids.”

“I understand.” I smile and nestle at the end of the sofa, away from him. Tonight, I’m trying to be a companion, not a sex toy. I open my book and yawn.

“You look nice in that robe,” he says.

“Kimono. Thank you.”

“Whatever. What are you reading?”

I close the book and show him the cover. “A romance by a new author from the Midwest. It’s called A Matter of Trust. It’s excellent.”

“Interesting title,” he remarks.

After a few moments, he slides his leg toward me and pokes my thigh with his big toe.

“You can come next to me and read. The sofa’s plenty big enough for us to both lie down, Justi.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

A few more minutes pass. Rafa scooches down and rests his feet in my lap. I prop my book on his feet. He runs his toes against the silky material of my robe. I glance over, and he pats the sofa next to him.

“Fine. Don’t give me the smile with the dimples.” Sighing dramatically, I stretch out next to him, my back to his chest.

He slips a muscular arm around my waist and becomes absorbed in an old Steven Segal movie. I ignore the television and keep reading until sleep overtakes me. I set the book on the floor and rest my head on my arm.

I drift off, then jerk awake when I feel him stroking my hip.

“Uh, was I snoring?”

“A little.” He brushes a few wisps of hair out of my face. I let out a little coo, and he puts his nose to my head.

“You smell delicious,” he whispers.

I snuggle into him more, feeling protected, and stay in a cocoon of half-sleep. When the movie’s over, Rafa clicks off the TV and scoops me up in his arms. Drowsy, I cling to him as we go up the staircase.

He lays me in the middle of the big bed, and from half-lidded eyes, I watch him take off his clothes. A little shiver goes down my spine because the evening seems so perfect, so normal. He gently removes my robe and then sits on his knees, watching me, looking at my naked body.

He skims a hand up my stomach and over my breasts.

“Jesus, Justine. You’re so beautiful it sometimes hurts me.”

I smile softly and hold my arms out to him. He covers us both with the down duvet, and I snuggle into the crook of his arm. My lips press on side of his chest, and I’m awash in joy as we nestle together, limbs twined.

When we were younger, it was common for each of us to gently kiss, touch, or even murmur I-love-yous to each other in our sleep. I drift off again and am vaguely aware of making a little groan of pleasure, not because he’s doing anything sexual, but because it feels so familiar, so right, to sleep in his arms.

He smooths my messy hair away from my face, and a few minutes later, he’s breathing heavily. Even after all these years, he makes a little puff-exhale right before he begins to snore.

And it’s still the most endearing sound to hear as I fall asleep. 

If only I could hear it every night for the rest of my life.

* * *

I always waited up for him when he worked late.

Being a valet meant he was out until three, sometimes four, in the morning on Saturday nights.

“I can’t wait till I’m done with this job. I hate that you’re home alone this late at night,” he told me when he called during a slow moment. “Please lock the door and try to sleep, okay?”

I reassured him that I was safe, that I was studying for exams, that I wasn’t worried sick about him. But I was. Because of what happened to my mother and brother and because I read the newspaper every day, I knew everything that could go wrong for him in Miami.

I flung myself into his arms when he came home.

“I missed you,” I whispered. “I made that frozen pizza you like.”

We sat on the sofa, and I watched him eat. Laughed at his stories about the rich people’s cars and his goofy coworkers. We put on a movie, and when I fell asleep next to him, he carried me into our futon bed and undressed me.

“Are you too tired to make love to me?” I murmured.

“Never,” he said, devouring my soft and sleepy mouth. Our coupling was slow, safe, erotic. In the dark, he trailed his index finger around each taut nipple; down my stomach; and, bit by bit, entered into my wetness. His thumb grazed my clit, and an orgasm rolled through my body.

“Such a good girl, Justi,” he whispered in my ear as I trembled in his arms.

The next morning—early afternoon, really—we were still in bed, sleeping. Naked and intertwined. Sundays were for us and bed. I heard a knock and a man’s voice and sat up.

“Oh shit, Rafa, it’s my dad,” I hissed, shaking his bare chest with my hand.

“Answer it, baby.” He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow.

My heart pounded. This could be a disaster. I forgot my father was coming for a visit. I hadn’t told my father that Rafa and I were basically living together in my apartment. The apartment my dad paid for.

“Rafa. He doesn’t know you stay here a lot.”

He rolled over and opened his eyes. I was half-dressed and pulled a UM sweatshirt over my head.

“You mean, he doesn’t know I live here? Are you ashamed of me, Justine?”

My father knocked on the door with more force, calling my name.

“No. Of course not. I can’t… We’ll have this conversation later. For now, get dressed and we’ll tell him we were studying. He just drove five hours to see me and I’ve forgotten. Shit.”

Rafa sighed. He climbed out of bed and shot me an angry look as he opened the bureau drawer where he’d neatly folded his things. I ran into the living room.

“Coming, Daddy!”

I tried to distract my dad by hugging him for a long time, but I was sure he could smell sex on my skin and in my hair. Rafael walked out and cleared his throat.

“Well. Nice to see you here, Rafael.” My dad was short and tan, with sandy hair. He was overweight, and I worried about his health.

I saw my dad appraise the tall, rumpled, and darkly sexy Rafael, who stood in the living room awkwardly with messy hair.

Did my father have to grimace every time he saw Rafael?

Did Rafael have to look so sleepy-sexy and masculine?

Rafael extended his hand and smiled. He wore a white T-shirt and cargo shorts. The sight of his muscular thighs made me want to stare. I always wanted to stare at him.

“Sir. Nice to see you. Your daughter and I were studying.”

My dad winced. “That’s great. I was hoping to take my little girl out alone today. You know, Rafael, fathers and daughters need quality time together.”

“Absolutely, sir. I totally understand. I have to get home as well.”

Rafael slipped his feet into a pair of green Havaiana flip-flops and grabbed his messenger bag by the door. It was so obvious we weren’t studying. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

Leaning down, he pecked me on the cheek. “Call you later, mi cielo.”

I nodded and opened the door for him. I tried to send him a strong, secret message with my eyes, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. Where was he going to spend the next several hours? The library? Or maybe he’d go to his aunt and uncle’s in Hialeah.

Sighing, I shut the door. Turning to my father, who settled on the sofa with the Sunday paper, I whined.

“Daddy, do you have to be so mean to him? He’s my boyfriend.”

My father was silent. Unfolding the paper, he studied the front page.

“Could you make me a cup of coffee, dear? I’d like to look through the paper for a bit. I’ll take you to Joe’s Stone Crab for a late lunch. Or an early dinner.”

Usually I loved going out to dinner with my dad because we’d have a great time laughing and talking about the news. Today, though, I dreaded it.

My voice turned shrill. I knew I was acting like a girl and not a twenty-year-old woman, but I didn’t care.

“Why don’t you like Rafael? You were cold to him all during Christmas break. Did you hear me? He’s my boyfriend. I love him. I’m going to marry him someday.”

He flung the paper on the sofa and glared at me. I’d never seen such anger in his eyes. Then he laughed. It was a cold sound.

“You’re going to marry him? Has he asked you?”

“No. Not yet. But he will. I know it.”

Her father sighed. “Sweetheart, Rafael is a Cuban hustler. Girls like you don’t marry men like Rafael. He’s using you. He only wants you because he assumes you have a trust fund from your mother’s side of the family. Don’t you think he’d rather have one of his own kind? Why would he want a girl from north Florida whose relatives are Florida crackers? Do you want to support him for the rest of your life?”

I stood in the middle of my living room, stunned. My mouth hung open, and tears flowed from my eyes.

“No. He’s not like that. He loves me. Me. He’s studying for his real estate exam, and he’s getting a business degree at UM. He might be poor now, but he’s going to make something of himself. You’ll see. He’s already figured out that there’s going to be a condo bubble in Miami in the next year or two. He has an idea to make some money off the coming real estate bust.”

My father rolled his eyes.

“Rafa’s so much better with money than I am. He’s already started a savings account and has a Roth IRA, whatever that is.”

I was fuming. How could my father say such nasty things about him? Why wouldn’t he acknowledge that Rafael had been through a lot and was already a success compared to where he’d come from?

“He’s brilliant. And he loves me. He’s going to take care of me. I don’t care what you say, Daddy.”

My father chuckled. “Real estate is only going up, Justine. This is Florida. Bubble? What bubble? He’s all wrong for you. For so many reasons.”

I was so angry that I couldn’t stand. I sank into a chair and stared at my father as if he was speaking an indecipherable language, wondering how I was going to convince him that Rafa and I were in love.