“Sleep well?”

How the hell did he get in my office? He’s sitting in my chair, behind my desk, reading the Times. He folds a corner of the paper down to greet me with an arched eyebrow and amused eyes.

I grunt in response. “You seem like you’re in a better mood.”

He grins. “I’ve decided to put last night behind us and start fresh.”

“Good to hear.” I busy myself by taking off my tan raincoat. I glance up to see him studying me.

“Look at you, Justi. There’s some color in your cheeks today. It wasn’t there yesterday morning when I arrived. Something must have happened to excite you.”

Bastard. I shoot him a side-eye and take my ham sandwich out of my laptop bag. It hasn’t survived the drive to work mashed between my laptop and a book. I stifle a grunt of annoyance as I open the dented, 1990s-era mini-fridge and toss it inside. I notice he’s still smiling.

Looking at him makes my face tingle. My index finger absentmindedly strokes my bottom lip. Somehow, he’s even more handsome in today’s midnight-blue suit than yesterday’s charcoal number. He has on a dark-blue, polka-dotted tie, and the ensemble is so masculine, so conservatively corporate and sexy, that I wryly remember something I’d once read.

I think my ovaries just exploded.

It’s as if my hormones are scattershot around my body. I’d tossed in bed all night, annoyed with the need for Rafa after years of telling myself that I was free of his spell. I’d even unearthed my vibrator from the back of the nightstand drawer and used it for the first time in ages. Now, in the harsh light of my office, I wonder if somehow Rafa can sense I pleasured myself—twice—while thinking of him as the rain fell in the darkness outside my bedroom window.

He folds the paper and tosses it on my file-strewn desk. Leaning back in the chair expansively, hands clasped behind his head, his grin grows wider.

“Who let you in?” I snap.

“Diana.”

Damn her. I can’t be too mad at her because of the pregnancy. The baby’s my godchild. Still. Couldn’t she have put Rafa in the conference room on the third floor, far from my office?

“Beautiful scarf. Trying to hide something?”

I’m wearing a blue silk scarf because he’d left not only a small bruise where he had bitten me, but a medium-sized hickey on my neck as well. Like an uncontrollable and horny teenage boy. I tug at the scarf, which makes me look a little like a flight attendant. That fact, along with my mangled sandwich, has me in a sour mood.

“And your little chin. Why is it so red? Por que?”

Scowling, I touch the pad of my index finger to my chin and my skin smarts. His stubble had scraped my flesh raw during last night’s frenzied makeout session. I ignore his provocations. “Where’s Diana?”

“She’s still gathering all of the paperwork and numbers. Until then, I think I’m going to make myself comfortable. See how this operation works, make some calls on other deals, check up on the Miami office.”

“So you’re just going to move in? Take over? What is this? A coup?” How long will I have to endure this torture? Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if there was time to take a vacation. I mentally scroll through my schedule, wondering if I could suddenly develop a keen interest in yoga or knitting or whatever it is that childless, single women my age do when they aren’t working all the time.

He straightens his spine and picks up the paper again. “The photos of the dogs at the pool came out well, don’t you think?”

Leaning against the desk with my back to him, I shrug and wonder why he’s trying to be so nice to me after last night’s debacle in bed. I take out my phone and swipe to the paper’s Twitter account. I skim the posts and read the big story of the morning—a sinkhole swallowed a car—and scan other local news sites. I see that the city’s blogger-gadfly posted how the reporters at the Times buzzed at the presence of a private equity investment firm from Miami. The blogger speculated the paper would be bought outright. I sigh. Who leaked to the blogger? More importantly, will this affect advertisers?

“So will there be a @StAugustineTimes in 10 years? 5? 1?” the blogger tweeted.

What a pain in the ass. I stab at the phone with my thumb to turn it off and whirl to face Rafa. “Yeah. The photos looked great. It’s nice that Ethan got off his ass to take them himself.”

He smiles tolerantly and sets the paper down. “Oh, Justine?”

I have to stifle my mirth because his dimples are showing on his freshly shaven face. His skin is so smooth and soft-looking that I want to run my fingers over it. Better yet, nibble on his neck.

His eyes go round. Rafa could always do this thing with his big eyes, making them seem eager and adoring all at once. He could be so damned sweet when he wanted, and I’m powerless when he turns on his charm.

“Yes, Rafecito?” I use my old nickname for him.

“Where’s the coffee? You know how I need coffee in the mornings. In my office in Miami, I have a whole catered breakfast spread for the employees.”

My cheeks flare with embarrassment. Two years ago, when my father was still publisher, he’d eliminated the coffee service because it was money the paper couldn’t spare. Someone had brought in a cheap coffee maker, and the brew was so nasty that I’d switched to tea. I’m not about to admit any of this to Rafa, who clearly can afford a trip to the nearby gourmet café.

“There’s a coffee house across the street. We went there yesterday.”

“Oh, the place where the owner flirted with you? What was his name? Mark? Perfect. When you go, can you grab me a double espresso? No, make that triple. Tell Mark I said hello.”

I move my messenger bag and purse from the chair onto the stained sofa and shut the door. How the hell had he picked up on Mark’s subtle flirtations? He’d been asking me out for months, since my breakup with Jared. Standing in front of Rafael, hands on my desk, I glare at him and drum my fingernails on the wood.

“Hold up. No. First, I’m not your secretary. Last time I checked, I’m the publisher here and I have work to do. I’m not fetching your coffee. And you’re not going to take over my office.”

He looks into my eyes. Again with the amused face and the dimples. “Oh. I thought you’d want me nearby so I can see firsthand what a great asset the Times is. I’ll have so many questions for you. I’m thinking about investing in your business, so I’ll need lots of information from you, the owner.”

I swallow. I have to keep my emotions in check if I want convince him to save the Times, but maintaining an even temper around him is difficult. I try to stare into his eyes, as if to gather some of his power, but his gaze is busy somewhere around my lips.

Rafa stands up and tents his arms on the desk. He leans forward. We’re now both angled toward each other, inches apart. I bite my lip, thinking of a way to get him out of my office. He’s too distracting and knows exactly how to tease me. I’ll never get anything done with him around, and I have a paper to put out, a presentation to a group of local business owners to prepare for, and some statewide journalism awards to judge. I can’t let him derail my life.

I mirror his pose, leaning forward so our faces are inches apart.

I adjust the ends of the scarf away from my chest. A satisfied thrill goes through me when I see his eyes wander down my cream-colored blouse to my cleavage. That morning, I’d made sure to wear my sexiest push-up bra and decided not to button my blouse as high as I normally do. His eyes glaze over a bit, and I know he’s in a bit of a man trance. He licks his bottom lip, and the urge to kiss him overtakes any annoyed feelings.

I allow the tension to build for several seconds, and when I speak, I let my thick Southern drawl emerge. “I would be delighted for you to spend time in the newsroom so you can see what talented journalists we have and why it’s so important to save this community institution. I’ll call maintenance to move that ugly sofa and drag down a desk from the storage room so we can set it up in here for you.”

He smiles wickedly and sits back down. Picking up a pen and twirling it between his long fingers, he doesn’t say anything for a moment as he studies my body. I shift my eyes from his fingers to his lips, and my mouth actually waters.

“No need, muñeca. I’ve already arranged for new furniture. A desk for you, a desk for me.” He points at a bare wall with the pen. “Especially if I end up investing, my employees will need a place to work when I send them up from Miami. This room is so big. It’ll be more attractive with two desks in here and some new chairs. These are so uncomfortable.” He looks down and slaps the duct tape-wrapped arm of my decrepit office chair. “The furniture delivery should be here in a few hours.”

I sputter in protest, but he holds up his hand. “It’s a gift, something to remind you of me long after I’m gone. I’m sure you can think of some way to thank me, no? Use your imagination. In the meantime, I’m going for that triple espresso. Would you like to join me?”

I shake my head and dig my nails into the palms of my hands.

“How is this going to look to the employees?” I asked. “The publisher is getting new furniture while everything else around here is failing? We can’t even keep the vending machines stocked. The faucet’s broken in the men’s room.”

“Yeah, I saw that and ducked into the women’s room to wash. Hope that was okay.”

I squeeze the back of my neck with my hand. “Jesus, how embarrassing.”

“We’ll work it all out, Justine. By the way, I’m taking Caroline out to lunch today. You’re not invited. We’ll probably talk about you.” His smile is flirtatious and playful. It infuriates me even more. I pick a thin, steel ruler up off my desk and grip it in both hands and squeeze, the hard edges cutting into my palms.

A puzzled look spreads across his face. “A ruler? Why does a publisher need a ruler? Are you drawing a lot of straight lines for an art project? Measuring things in centimeters?”

I wave the thin, flexible guide in the air, and it makes the waka-waka noise that I loved as a child. “It’s called a pica pole. It’s how the copy desk at a newspaper used to measure column inches before computers. See?” I point to black marks on one side. “This measures in traditional inches. This other side in picas. It was also useful for ripping wire copy, laying out page dummies, whatever.”

Rafa gets up and walks to me. “May I see?”

I hand him the ruler.

He inspects it and grins wide. With a snap of his wrist, he slices it through the air, as if he’s going to hit something with it. Or someone. He looks at me and makes the motion with the ruler again.

My eyes grow big at the sound of the metal whizzing noise, and I have a memory from years ago of Rafa spanking me with a hairbrush. I swallow, suddenly overcome with want and need and a desire to do very naughty things right in my office with this arrogant, frustrating man.

“May I borrow this?” he asks.

I make an outraged huff. “For what purpose? This is a piece of newspaper history.”

He snickers as he slides the pica pole into his computer bag.

I inhale short, sharp, shallow breaths.

“Out.” I point at the door. “Go get your damned coffee.”