A few days after the announcement that Rafa is investing in the paper, I cross my arms and glare at Ethan, the paper’s managing editor. We're in a standoff, in his office.

“I know this article could take a couple of weeks, maybe even a month, to report and write, but I think it’s a story we need to tell. We have to find a reporter to write this.” Why am I the one fighting to get a story in the paper? Ethan should be convincing me to spend money and resources on a series of articles. This is ridiculous.

I pace Ethan’s small office. I don’t need this bullshit, not today. “This shouldn’t be my job to sell you on a story. I’m the publisher. It just so happens that a former source of mine called me with the information. God knows what would have happened had she called you.”

I plop into a hard plastic chair. He clasps his pudgy hands over his newly sprouted potbelly. Journalism hasn’t been kind to his physique. He stares at me with sneering blue eyes.

He’s second-guessing me. Again. He does this often, especially when he doesn’t agree with my decisions. I snort out loud at all the times he's acted like this, and Ethan stares at me petulantly.

“Your father always liked my news judgment.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ethan.” I couldn’t believe he was bringing up my dad.

He and my father had been friends. My dad had hired him as a hotshot city editor, right about the time I’d returned from Latin America and become managing editor. Ethan took my place when my dad died, and I became publisher. But he’d not-so-secretly hoped my dad would bestow the title of publisher on him—a ridiculous thought if there ever was one. My father, for all of his faults, was intensely loyal to his family. This paper was mine—well, mine and my brother’s—from birth.

Ethan still somehow thinks he knows more than me because he’s a digital media whiz and because he’s a guy. More than journalism, mansplaining is his true talent.

“When you became publisher after Edward died, you said you wouldn’t interfere on the editorial side.” He rolls his eyes, which annoys me.

He never acted like this with my father.

I shake my head and throw my hands in the air. Ethan and I have been at odds on several stories over the past several months, with him pushing me to take the paper in a fluffier, softer direction. I wouldn’t have minded his opinion if he hadn’t been such a dick.

I’d been skeptical when he suggested that we run slideshows every Monday of readers’ pets—something that I later conceded was a good idea after we did a trial run and traffic spiked on the paper’s website.

“I said I would try not to interfere. In my heart, I’m a journalist. You know that. And we need to pursue this story about children of migrant workers. It’s important. We could uncover something that no one else has. No other Florida paper has written about this.”

“And I told you that we don’t have any Spanish speakers to do the interview properly.”

I sigh softly, not wanting to raise my voice. This is another effing problem in a year filled with them.

Even though we’re in Ethan’s office with the door closed, sound carries through the thin walls and the two giant windows that overlook the newsroom. Every reporter and editor is hyper-aware that Ethan and I are having an animated discussion. Will this end up in the media gossip column on Saint Augustblog? The blogger has been tweeting non-stop all week about Rafael’s investment in the paper.

“We’ll find someone. I can do it, in the worst-case scenario, if we reschedule the interview. I just can’t go this afternoon.”

“Come on. Is this story worth the publisher stepping in to report it herself? I don’t think so.” Ethan scoffs. “It’s not a particularly sexy story. Who cares about migrant kids, really? Do any of our readers want to read another tale of woe about poor people? That feature on the needy kids at Christmas barely got any clicks.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you’d say that. It’s our job to make readers care.”

“Our readers think migrant kids are illegals and should be deported. They want lighter news. Cat videos. Celebrities. Funny jail mugshots.”

Sucking in an angry breath, I count to ten before I speak. “We’re still a newspaper, last time I checked. We’re not some website that runs cute animal slideshows. I’m the publisher, and I want us to cover this story. Who needs stories about mugshots or cat videos?”

We glare at each other.

“We had this same conversation when I pushed for the police scandal series, Ethan. And what happened then? We won awards.”

He lifts his shoulders in a bored shrug. “Yeah, we won awards, but they don’t mean shit. They didn’t get us a bump in circulation. You know that.”

I rear back. Why is he so fucking stubborn? My gaze skitters out the windows into the newsroom, and I spy a few reporters glancing in our direction. Spirited arguments aren’t uncommon in the Times newsroom, but it’s rare to see the publisher and managing editor going at it behind a closed door.

“What do you mean?” I hiss. “Of course awards mean something. They’re a morale booster for the staff. They help sell ads.”

“Then why is Saint Augustblog clearing twenty grand in new ad revenue this month? I heard they’re taking ad accounts away from us. They already took away our sports columnist. That’s who we’re competing with, Justine. A blogger who’s retweeting kitten photos from the fire department and covering the hell out of high school sports.”

I press my lips together hard. I wonder if Ethan is the one who is leaking the information to the blogger about Rafa’s presence in the newsroom. This isn’t a fight I want to have, not today, and I rub my temple with my index finger.

“Saint Augustblog also writes puff pieces about politicians after taking their money for campaign ads. You know the blog is totally unethical.”

Ethan smirks. “Let’s be real. Ethical journalism? We don’t have enough clout or money to spend all day debating ethics. And your Miami friend has already agreed to buy the paper, so we’re solid for a few more years. We don’t need to impress him. Like he cares what we put in the newspaper. He doesn’t know an investigative story from a cartoon. You know as well as I do that he’s here to make a profit, like all private equity firms.”

I allow that last sentence to hang in the air without a response.

Ethan continues, raising his eyebrows and looking at me pointedly. “Or…maybe he’s here for something else.”

He went there. He really went there. Asshole.

I stand and fix a hard stare at Ethan. “I’m not going to fire you instantly for that comment, because I need someone to put out tomorrow’s paper. But I suggest you start searching for a new job. Because my father liked you, and because I know you haven’t paid off that piece of shit SUV you bought two years ago, I’ll give you six weeks before you need to gather your things and get out.”

I tap on Ethan’s desk with my red fingernail before turning to walk out, already promising myself that I won’t mention this conversation to Rafa because there’s no telling how he’ll react. Twisting the doorknob, I swivel my head back at Ethan, whose eyes are wide with shock.

“Assign a reporter to the migrant worker story right now. I’ll find a Spanish speaker to translate.”

I stalk into my office and shut the door with a firm bang. Immediately I draw the blinds to the window that looks out into the newsroom. I don’t want the reporters and editors trying to read my lips while I talk to Rafa.

Meanwhile, he’s a picture of Zen calm. He looks up, amused, and studies me over the frame of his laptop.

“You look annoyed. That must have been some meeting.”

I smile at him grimly and plop onto the new, black leather sofa. God, it feels so comfortable I could almost curl up and nap if it wasn’t for the fact that my paper was imploding.

I groan and kick off my heels. “The newsroom is onto a great story. A group that helps migrant worker families has finally granted us an interview with some of the fieldworkers, including the children. We think some of the kids are actually skipping school and picking crops for eight or more hours a day. Little kids. Which is completely illegal.”

Rafa raises his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting. Is there a problem?”

I roll my ankles. He just doesn’t yet understand how dire things are here at the paper. “We lost our two Spanish speakers in the last six months. One went to an online startup, the other to the dark side.”

Rafa looks confused. “The dark side?”

“Public relations,” I say quickly. I pause and think about how to explain why PR is considered the dark side to journalists, then move on, figuring that Rafa doesn’t care anyway. “Now we have all the time we need to interview these people, but no one who speaks their language. It’s ridiculous. We haven’t been able to hire anyone to replace the reporters, so we either have to pay a translator or skip the story. Or I could go and help with the interviews.”

“You should. You’re fluent. You miss reporting, you told me that a hundred times this week.” Rafa’s eyes wander back to his computer. He definitely doesn’t share my zeal for writing. He’ll probably never understand my love for newspapers, but unless you grew up in it like I did, it’s a difficult love to comprehend.

“I would kill to do the interview and the story. But they want to do it in an hour, and I’ve already promised to speak to the business and professional women’s network. I can’t cancel that because I’m going to ask the members to advertise with us. It sucks. This could be an incredible story.”

Rafa leans back and throws his pen on the desk. “I’ll do it.”

I shoot him a withering glance. “Yeah, sure.”

“How hard can it be to talk to people? Ask questions in my native tongue?” He grins. “I’ve always suspected being a reporter’s easy. Now I can prove it to you. Hell, it’s probably easier than trying to unravel the financial mess the newspaper is in.”

I snort. “You might be right about that.”

“So I’ll go. I’ll ride with the reporter and interview and translate. It’ll be good for me. I can see what a reporter does up-close, besides drinking coffee and complaining.”

I scowl. “I…don’t know. I don’t know if you’re up for this.”

“Why?” He sounds annoyed. “You don’t trust me?”

“For starters, you’re dressed too nice. The jacket and tie have to go. You can’t look like a GQ model in a community center for farm workers. It’ll make people feel uncomfortable. And take the Rolex off. You’ll look like you’re flaunting your wealth. Maybe in Miami that’s okay, but here it isn’t.”

He grins and walks over to the sofa while taking off his jacket and flinging it on the desk. Then he undoes his watch and hands it to me. I drape it over two fingers.

“Keep it,” he says, staring down at me. “Better yet, I’ll buy you your own Rolex.”

“Pfft. Like I would want a watch that costs five times as much as my car.”

Rafa’s smile fades. “Most women would love that offer.”

I shoot him an I’m-not-most-women smirk.

He responds by stripping off his tie. It makes a little whizzing noise as it slips through his collar.

He sits next to me, draping the blue tie around my neck.

“Well, that gives me some ideas,” I purr and put my arms around him.

Rafa leans in to kiss me softly. Hungrily, I bite his bottom lip and make a moaning noise as I nibble. God, he always tastes good. Like mint. I can never kiss him just once.

He growls. “Take me to the reporter before I bind your wrists together with my tie and fuck you in this office until you can’t remember your name.”

I can’t help but grin and blush.

“Fine,” I say, standing up. “And just so we’re clear. I hope you’re planning on doing exactly what you just described later this evening.”