Love's Legacy in St. Augustine

Chapter 5

"Please excuse the, um, pirate." I step gingerly around the sleeping man.

"Every i***t with an eye patch anda 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.

"Ive 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 beernand 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 decline 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 alot, 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 s**t 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, it's been so long." 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.

The smell of Caroline's signature scent YSL's Opium, straight from 1985 -surrounds me in a cloud. I love Caroline too much to take her off the part-time payroll, and these days, she only shows up at the office when she feels like it.

Of course, today has to be a day she's

working.

Rafael and Caroline hit it off from the moment they met, when I took Rafael on a tour of the newsroom that first Christmas break we'd been a couple.

He used to say that Caroline andI were the only people he truly felt comfortable around.

Fifteen years have passed since that Christmas. Fifteen. Eleven since we'd broken up. I suddenly feel ancient.

My hand goes to my lower back and rubs an invisible pain.

Diana shuffles up to me and whispers in my ear. "Oh boy. You're screwed now. This is what she's wanted for years."

"I know. She's going to totally think we're getting back together."

"Hmm," Diana hums softly. "Well, that's an intriguing idea."

Since she left eleven years ago, Ive held conversations with Justine in my mind. Truthfully, I've even talked out loud to her, in the small hours of the night. When I'm alone and lonely.

Asked for her opinion. Pleaded with her. Shouted at the top of my lungs.

Should I invest in this building? Please, let's talk this out. There's still time.

Why did you give up on us? And now that I'm standing near her, staring into her sparkling eyes, inhaling her sugary, vanilla scent, I can't think of a thing to say. I'm wondering if her skin still tastes like whipped cream.

I study her with the caution of a tiger-tamer at the circus. I can't believe she's short-circuited my brain this quickly.

Ever since I ambushed her on the sidewalk, her voice has been shaky, like my insides are. I didn't think I'd be this nervous seeing her again.

Hearing her soft, southern accent sends a current of desire through me. It's an ever-present feeling, one that ebbs and flows depending on how much, or how little, Im thinking about her. Now that we're together again, that current is more like a tsunami roaring through my veins.

I need to concentrate on the task at hand.

Which isn't easy, because the newsroom is fetid. Worse than what I remember. It smells like onions, and there's a half-eaten pizza and a stack of yellowed newspapers in the corner.

Has anyone cleaned this place in fifteen years? It doesn't look like it. I'd never understood why Justine loved the chaos of newspapers. When we met, she was a reporter for the school paper, and I'd often visit her there.

At first, I was captivated by how she seemed extra alive in her newsroom, or when she was writing a story late at night for the paper. But journalism, and her desire to be a star reporter, came between us. Well, that and a lot of other things.