A Kiss in the Rain

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All during dinner, I can't stop thinking about that moment in the stairwell. About how she looked at me, filled with piss and vinegar, and the way her body — her beautiful, curvy, sugar-scented body — stiffened. How it didn't seem like it was that big of a deal to her that we were physically close for the first time in years.

How she wanted to get away from me.

It ripped my heart apart even more. Which I didn't think possible.

Glancing at Justine across the table, I push my water to her and she looks at me like I've done something deeply offensive. Instead of making me take pity on her for being tired, I want to lash out — and yet, I wonder why we're being so nasty with each other. Why can't we act like adults? We're in our thirties, and what happened between us took place when we were practically children.

"Tell me more about how close you are to bankruptcy."

She glares at me, and I wonder if she knows how I want her to hurt, like I'm hurting now. Like I've hurt for years. My phone buzzes, and I notice the name on the screen: Christina. I flip it over and I gloat a little inside when Justine's eyes linger on the phone. She grills me about whether I'm single and I gloat some more.

She says something in a petulant voice and I offer her some bread. She torments me by rubbing oil on her lip, and I look away. The tension in the air between us pops and crackles, and I know that things will even out once we get naked.

If we get naked. It's looking highly doubtful at this point, a fact that I would normally laugh about over drinks with David. Me, Miami's most eligible bachelor, unable to seal the deal with a woman. Usually I'm able to laugh at myself. Not tonight, though. Christ.

Touching her in the stairwell had been a terrible idea. It had only been for a second, but that second was burned in my mind. Perhaps this was an awful idea overall, coming here to see her.

But wait, what's that? Is that her leg next to mine? Is she seriously playing footsie with me under the table?

I smirk a little, triumphant. I shift a little to accommodate the growing tightness in my pants, but not enough so that she'll stop touching me.

Perhaps I'd misjudged her. Maybe she wants me like I want her, and is playing a game. That must be it. She says something about seeing me in a magazine. Was it possible that she had followed me online as much as I'd followed her? The realization sends a little kick to my chest, and for the rest of dinner, I toy with her.

"So, once you returned from Central America, you never came back to visit Miami?" I swirl my wine casually, trying not to appear interested.

"I did, I guess, once," she mumbles. "Anyway, let's get back to the paper. Why are you so interested in media properties? You never seemed all that enamored with newspapers when we were together."

She downs the last of her wine and looks at me through her long, dark lashes. My eyes travel down her throat, to her blouse. I count one, two, three, four buttons of her blouse. I'll make short work of those, and she knows it.

I can't help but grin when I see her nipples harden under my gaze. She clears her throat.

"Rafa, maybe we should call it a night?"

I signal for the waiter.

"Please, allow me," Justine says with mock formality, reaching for her purse. "After all, I'm the one who called your company."

I grin at her. "No, Justine, the pleasure's all mine."

And it will be, very soon.

We drive to her house and I'm flooded with memories. Of how I didn't want to show I was nervous when I first met her father. How somehow my chest felt lighter when she told me she loved me as we made our way up to the front door that first time. How she'd given me that gift of photos, and how we'd decorated her house Christmas Eve, because her father had been too grief-stricken over her mother and brother to get into the holiday spirit.

"Do you still love me?" she'd asked that night.

"Yes," I'd said. "And do you still love me?"

"You're not gonna believe this, Rafael. But I love you even more now than I did an hour ago."

Now that we're almost at her house, I take a deep breath, trying to will the memories away.



For some reason, Rafa seems to be gripping the steering wheel of his car pretty hard. So hard I think his knuckles are white. His car is an electric Tesla, expensive and stealthy, and I'm a little intimidated by the sleekness of it all.

We don't talk much on the way to my house. He's always been intense when he drives. I stare out the window at the rain. Our barb-filled dinner had ended in détente, in the form of key lime pie because the restaurant didn't have flan.

"Is it strange living in your parents' house?" he asks after a long silence.

I shrug. "It's not like I have any other choice. The mortgage is paid for, and I haven't taken a salary from the paper in a few months."

"So what are you living on?"

I pause. "A small inheritance and my father's life insurance policy."

"Are you living alone? Did you get the dog you always wanted? And what's this about you dating someone?"

I don't answer right away, and when I do, I change the subject. "This winter storm sure is unusual. Normally it never rains here in February."

"Not going to answer my questions? Does that mean I get to meet your new boyfriend when we get to your house?"

I sigh. "There's no new boyfriend. Yes, I'm living alone, and no, there's nothing much to say about my ex. He worked at a TV station. He got a big job anchoring the five o'clock news in Los Angeles."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

I roll my eyes. "If I hated Miami, wouldn't I loathe L.A.?"

I leave out the part about how Jared was both attentive and superficial. How he was a great boyfriend, but didn't have fire in his belly for anything other than his job. Well, that and the fact he couldn't find his way around a vagina if his life depended on it. It wasn't like I was a sex addict or anything; I simply desired physical contact more than Jared did. When he left, we'd parted as friends.

"And I didn't ever get my dog. I'm not home much." I shrug and turn my body to the window, hoping it will end the questions. I'm mentally exhausted.

The unusual winter thunderstorm sends sheets of water over the Tesla's windshield and thunder crackles in the distance. Rafa stops the car in front of my house and kills the ignition. He glances at my little, yellow, 1920s-era bungalow with blue trim.

"Wow, that's some déjà vu," he says softly.

I nod and wonder if he's thinking about the first time I brought him here, during Christmas break our sophomore year in school. It's déjà vu for me, too, but I don't tell him that.

"Thank you for dinner." My fingers wrap around the door handle.

"Wait. I don't want you getting wet and sick."

Before I can protest, he produces an umbrella, climbs out of the driver's seat, walks around to my side, and opens the door. He holds out his big hand.

"Come, Justi." I'm not going to argue, because it's probably better not to get drenched, not after this difficult day. I slip my hand into his, and his familiar touch sends warmth up my arm. We walk quickly to the front door, his hand wrapping around my waist and drawing me close. I pull back, shocked at how normal it feels to be so close to him, then yelp when the raindrops hit me.

"You're half in the rain. Get under the umbrella. I won't bite."

Yeah, right. Part of me wants him to sink his teeth into my skin, which is why my insides seem like they're vibrating from being so close to him.

We pause on my doorstep. I gaze at him, his big, dark eyes illuminated by the porch light. There's a sublime moment when I see a little glint of rain on his crazy-long lashes.

"Well, it's late. I'll see you at the paper tomorrow. Thank you again for dinner. I had—"

He doesn't let me finish.

Holding the umbrella over us with one hand, he wraps his other hand around the back of my head and possessively draws me close. I let out a little squeak, but the rain drowns it out. His lips touch mine, and I dissolve into him.

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