Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  I groan. Now she’s really trying to make me feel better, bringing up our wilder moments from our teenage years. Bless her heart.

  Pressing my hand onto my hip, I tap my foot faster on the sidewalk. Now I’m sweating everywhere and not because it’s so stupidly, unseasonably warm for February in Florida. I’m sweating because the very idea that the most important man of my past could eventually be in charge of my future—and my company’s future—is impossible to comprehend.

  “So I guess the VP of Florida Capital—or MDA or whatever the company’s called now—will see our business, warts and all. We’re a newspaper. We traffic in truth. Why try to gloss over the ugly?” I shrug casually as panic pools in my midsection.

  Diana shoots me a sharp look. “Come on. We’re not that bad of an investment.”

  “There’s a lot of ugly right now at the St. Augustine Times.” I spit out a laugh. “I wish I’d stayed a reporter.”

  Diana sighs. “You were a great reporter, and I know that was easier than being publisher. But what is it that you said to me when your dad died? This is your legacy. You love this. Fighting for what’s right. Being the voice of the community. Upholding the First Amendment. It’s in your blood.”

  “Lofty, ivory-tower bullshit,” I mutter.

  “Stop being grouchy. You believe in this paper. Otherwise, why try to save it?”

  I grunt. She’s right. I love this place, this business, even with all the problems. I still think we can make a difference in this fucked-up world. When I’m having a bad day, I often think of a quote from my favorite dystopian comic book character, Spider Jerusalem: “Journalism is just a gun. It’s only got one bullet in it, but if you aim right, that’s all you need. Aim it right, and you can blow a kneecap off the world.”

  Trouble is, my gun’s been dropped, kicked, and crammed with mud. If it even fires, it might blow my head off.

  Diana’s eyes soften. “The building alone is worth what you’re asking for the loan.”

  I roll my eyes. The building is the only thing of value, and that’s what’s heartbreaking. And Diana knows it. As the CFO, she’s aware of how dire things are. Everything hinges on this meeting. My career. My newspaper. My entire life. The Times has been my family’s heirloom to the city for nearly one hundred and fifty years, and its future is uncertain.

  At best.

  And now, Rafael is standing in between me and success.

  The enormity of it all leaves me at once unsteady and detached, as though I’d been plucked from my safe world and plopped into a different dimension altogether, one where the laws of sense and sanity don’t exist.

  Larry pokes his head out the door again and calls to me in a loud voice, “Justine, the police said they’d be here in five or ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Larr.” I smile without showing my teeth and wave. He’s worked at the Times for longer than I’ve been alive and is only a couple of years from retirement. Sweet, white-haired Larry, who used to buy my brother and me Rocket Pops off the ice cream truck when we were in grade school and were forced to spend afternoons at the paper with Dad during summer break.

  What will happen to Larry’s pension if this deal doesn’t go through? He disappears inside. I could be the one to tank Larry’s pension. The hole in my stomach spreads into a crater.

  I tug my tight pencil skirt down past my knees, then inspect my thumbnail. My red polish hasn’t chipped. Yet. I stand with my back to the street, and Diana’s elbow nudges my forearm.

  “Don’t sweat it. Rafael won’t show up today, Justine. He probably doesn’t know this meeting is even happening.”

  “Yep. It’s a big enough company that he probably doesn’t keep track of all the requests for funding, especially so soon after the acquisition. Besides, it sounds like he runs a real estate investment company and owns God-knows-what else in Miami. I wish someone had let on that this was about to happen when I applied for the loan.”

  “Maybe it’ll even work in our favor.”

  I shrug, but my shoulders stay hunched somewhere around my ears. “Maybe. Anyway, I’ll bet Rafael’s forgotten I even exist. It’s been, what, ten, twelve years since we’ve seen each other?” I know exactly how long it’s been, because I occasionally do the calculations in my mind.

  Eleven years, two months, and three days.

  Not that I keep track or anything.

  Diana clears her throat while looking at the drunk. I wince when the pirate scratches his belly in his sleep.

  “Fuck my life,” I mutter.

  Precise footsteps sound on the sidewalk behind us, and my heart thrashes against my ribcage. I’m about to turn around when there’s a pause in the steps and a beat of silence. My heart hammers in time with the throbbing pain in my head. Is it possible for a thirty-four-year-old woman to have a stroke and a heart attack simultaneously?

  “So, corazón, I’ve heard the news business is going through some tough times. I didn’t expect skid-row drunks, though. Wait. Is that a pirate?”

  My breath hitches, and a sudden heat spreads through my body. That tone. Sardonic and sexy. I haven’t heard it in so long, but it’s as familiar and seductive as the humid breeze that inspires the Spanish moss to sway in trees all over the city.

  Rafael Menendez de Aviles.

  4

  Breathless

  I spin around fast enough that my long hair tumbles over one shoulder. After all these years, the sound of that man’s voice is capable of taking my breath away.

  My posture stiffens as I stare into his face. His flashing, near-black eyes sear into mine while my breath settles near my collarbone. All the memories flood my brain in that moment, memories that leave me dizzy with lust and longing and, most of all, regret.

  “Rafael.” I cross my arms tight over my breasts, trying to hide the emotion in my voice.

  What am I trying to hide exactly? Surprise? Anger? Desire?

  All three, truth be told. And so many more.

  “Rafael.” I repeat myself, louder this time, sharper. The pain in my head has vanished, replaced by a troupe of angry hummingbirds in my stomach.

  He doesn’t respond, just allows me to stare at him. Does he see my face getting warmer and sweatier and probably red?

  I blink several times, hoping he’ll shimmer into the morning humidity like some kind of sexy man-mirage.

  The short, black hair. The thick, dark brows and long eyelashes framing those stunning eyes. The prominent nose with a slight bump in the middle, the bump I used to kiss softly when he woke in the morning and before he fell asleep at night. It’s the only imperfection on an otherwise model-handsome face. His full lips hold a tiny smile. No, it’s a smirk. A ridiculously sexy smirk twisting into a cruel line.

  He doesn’t vanish. His eyebrow quirks upward. I lick my dry lips out of nervousness and desire and immediately hate myself for feeling both at once.

  But how could I not?

  At six-feet, three-inches, he’s exactly a foot taller than me. God, he looks delicious. Better than he did when we were in college.

  This isn’t good.

  His charcoal-colored suit jacket is tailored to highlight his broad shoulders and arms, and yet it seems to barely contain his muscles. He’s got on a white shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the top. No tie, because I suspect he wants to project a rakish, doesn’t-give-a-shit attitude. As if he happened to show up at my business by chance.

  Rafael never does anything by chance. At least, he didn’t when I knew him.

  He thrusts his hands in his pockets and doesn’t blink. Rocks back and forth on his heels while staring at me while I gulp for air like a grouper out of water. My throat is parched.

  Is he laughing? And what’s with him looking down at the sidewalk, then back into my eyes? Like he’s bashful or flirtatious or nervous? It’s an act. I know it. His eyelashes are still long. Dammit. He looks at me and blinks.

  The lashes. I stop myself from groaning out loud in agony.

  He blinks again, and the
corners of his mouth quirk upward.

  Oh, I’m certain he’s aware of the effect he’s having on me.

  I draw a long breath, trying to regulate my erratic heartbeat. I glance over at Diana, who’s staring at us, slack-jawed. She knows what kind of chemistry we possessed together. She knows how much I’d loved him and how he hurt me.

  And now she looks more than a little terrified of what is about to go down.

  What is about to go down? It’s as if time has stopped. A heavy feeling settles in my stomach. The troupe of hummingbirds has dropped dead.

  His smirk spreads into a big, sexy smile. “Buenos dias.”

  I shoot him my best, well-practiced, bitchy resting face. “Well. What a surprise.” My voice is the opposite of the air this morning. The opposite of what I’m feeling in my gut. Instead of hot and thick, my tone is pure ice.

  “I know how much you love surprises, Justi.” The dimples in his cheeks deepen, the glint in his eyes grows more feral, and I stop breathing for a few seconds.

  No one ever called me Justi, except Rafael. It was the nickname he used to whisper in my ear whenever he tipped my body into a spiral of mind-blowing orgasms.

  And whenever he told me he loved me.

  I’d bite my bottom lip so hard I feel a searing pain.

  “Rafael,” I say in a sharp voice.

  “You still like saying my name, don’t you? You’ve said it three times now.”

  Damn him. My nostrils twitch. “I thought my appointment was with a senior VP, what’s his name, Jonathan. That’s who I spoke with on the phone. Of course, when I contacted the Florida Capital a month ago, I didn’t know that you’d be buying it.”

  He licks his lips, as if he’s trying keep himself from saying something, and then grins a little. “Your appointment was with my VP. But I decided to handle the account instead.”

  I fold my arms. “I wouldn’t think the new owner of a multibillion-dollar equity firm had the time for such a miniscule request from a struggling newspaper publisher.”

  “I give my clients personal attention, Justi.”

  “Personal attention from you? What luck.”

  His eyes flicker to my mouth. “Si. Que suerte,” he murmurs, probably recalling that his Spanish was always a turn-on for me. “Yes. What luck.”

  He appraises me coolly, and I step toward him, my hand outstretched. I’m trying to be professional, but really, all I want is to feel his skin on mine. His eyes widen for a millisecond.

  “You won’t even shake my hand?” I ask in a soft voice.

  His grin fades. Neither of us blink as our fingers clasp one another. Even though I’ve spent years rehashing our relationship, cursing him, hating both of us for what we did to each other, every moment has led to this.

  My delicate hand gripping his larger one. The way the palm trees seem to stand still and the parrots overhead stop screeching. Our inescapable, explosive chemistry. My mouth waters a little when I remember how his skin tasted, and even now, I still suspect he’s the only person in the world who can truly see me for who I am.

  Which scares the hell out of me.

  “Don’t you also have a real estate empire to run in Miami?”

  He drops my hand when he detects the snark in my voice. For a fraction of a second he looks wounded, like the young man I once knew. But the look vanishes when he releases that predatory grin again. His eyes bore into mine, and I inhale unsteadily as he talks in that smooth-as-caramel voice of his.

  “I do still have my real estate business. It’s nice to hear you’ve been keeping up with my career. But I can run my companies from anywhere. Even here. I assume a dying newspaper has Internet access, correct? Or have things gotten so bad that the utilities have been shut off?”

  “No, things aren’t that bad.” I roll my eyes and point at Diana. We’ll get to the humiliating situation with my business soon enough. “You remember Diana, right? She’s now the paper’s CFO.”

  He turns and peers at her for the first time. “Yes. Of course. I haven’t seen you since graduation.” With controlled ease, he nods toward her large stomach. “A new baby is a blessing. I’m happy for you. When are you due?”

  “In about a month. You look great, Rafael, I’m impressed. You must be working out.”

  Sighing, I put my hand on Diana’s back. “Okay. The reunion’s over. Let’s go inside.”

  Rafael chuckles. I turn to lead him and Diana into the building, feeling Rafael’s eyes on my every move. I glance over my shoulder at him and flick my hair behind my shoulder. “Please excuse the, um, pirate.” I step gingerly around the sleeping man. “Every idiot with an eye patch and a bottle of rum came to St. Augustine this weekend for the pirate parade.”

  When we’re on the bottom of the three steps into the building, Rafael reaches up and around my body in an attempt to open the door for Diana and me. His warm fingers graze my bare arm, and I jerk away from the jolt of desire that surges though me. He can feel the electricity, too, I can tell.

  “I’ve got the door,” I say sharply, lunging for the handle. I yank hard.

  Rafael’s expensive-looking wingtip slips on the final step leading into the building, and he comes close to stumbling. I lob a grin back at him, batting my own long lashes in his direction.

  I always knew exactly how to make him come undone.

  Once inside the newspaper, we stop in a large, nearly empty room. I’m still sweating and suddenly detect a moldy smell in the air. What fresh and hellish problem is this? It’s not coming from where the roof leaked over the copy desk a couple of months ago. Why haven’t I noticed this before today?

  I glance at Rafael, whose nose is wrinkling. Adorably. His lip curls. Adorably. He looks down, and his face contorts. Yeah, that’s adorable too.

  When the smell of onions wafts in my direction, I look down as well. Someone has left a greasy piece of pizza in an open box atop a two-drawer, beige file cabinet. The slice has a single bite taken out of the tip.

  Journalists are pigs.

  I clear my throat, wondering if the night editor used his own cash for the pizza or if it came out of the newsroom budget. I’m going to kill him if it’s the latter.

  “Rafa,” I say, using my old nickname for him because two can play this game. “Maybe you remember this. Or maybe you don’t. It’s the newsroom.”

  For a beat, he winces when I call him Rafa. I sweep a hand in the air, in the direction of two editors and a reporter. They’re all guys, and they look identical, as if they’ve only ever worn poorly ironed, blue button-downs, drank cheap draft beer and read the AP Stylebook for fun—which they probably have. It’s a little shocking that they’re even at work at this hour, truthfully. They perk up when they spot us.

  Rafael’s too well dressed for this crowd. And I usually never wear heels. We’re attracting attention. We’ll definitely be the topic of discussion for the rest of the day, and I’m certain that people will think I’m selling the paper.

  “Welcome back from vacation, Derek,” I say, smiling, keeping a cool, professional tone in my voice as I address the crusty old city editor who looks like he hasn’t showered in three days. I suspected he’d spent his vacation at the local dog track.

  “Got a job interview, Justine?” he replies, grinning and pointing at my shoes. My dad hired him twenty years ago, and despite his unkempt Jimmy Buffet-meets-skid-row drunk fashion sense, he’s a brilliant editor.

  Had I still been a reporter, I’d have given him the finger, because in a newsroom, it’s generally acceptable for coworkers to be wildly inappropriate with each other. But I’m in charge now, so I need to act like an adult.

  I spin toward Rafael. He flicks his wrist to check his watch. I fight the urge to shake him into paying attention.

  He raises his eyebrows. “How many staffers does the Times have now, Justine? Surely this isn’t everyone?”

  “A couple dozen in the newsroom, many more in other departments. Most of the reporters are out on assignment.” Or, I de
cline to explain, they haven’t rolled in yet because they’re too hungover or are busy sending résumés out to the three available public relations jobs in the city.

  A smile dances on his lips. “A couple dozen? That’s a big drop from a decade ago. Things have changed a lot, haven’t they?”

  “Some things have,” I mutter. “Other things haven’t changed. We still strive for quality journalism. And we achieve that on most days.”

  Our eyes meet for another long second. An unexpected rush of emotions passes through me, making my skin tingle. My eyes water ever so slightly, and I blink rapidly. When was the last time a man made me feel tingly?

  Damn him.

  How can one fleeting look unravel my composure? I’m being irrational. Emotionally disorganized. Sweat pricks the back of my neck. I need to get my shit together and fast. Just because Rafael and I were college sweethearts doesn’t mean we can’t do business together. Just because we ended miserably doesn’t mean we can’t be professional.

  Right?

  “Rafael? Is that you?”

  It’s the creaky voice of Caroline, the seventy-something food and garden writer and doyenne of the newsroom. I’m not exactly sure how old she is, because she always says a lady never talks about her age or her weight. All I know is that she started at the paper when my grandfather ran the place and is like a mother to me.

  She’s also the first person I introduced to Rafael when I brought him home our freshman year in school. It was as if I wanted her approval before even my father’s.

  “Carolina, mi amor.” For the first time, Rafael’s voice seems genuine and not growly. He uses the Spanish pronunciation of her name and trills his r at the end of the word amor and sweeps the little woman up into a fierce hug while sporting a huge grin. That grin makes my chest ache for when he’d been genuine with me. The trilling of the r tugs at a different place in my body.

  I need to stop remembering our good times. Or anything at all.