Humiliation

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A couple of hours later, as we're touring the advertising department, I turn to Justine.

"May I buy you a coffee?"

"I don't drink it much anymore."

"That's incredible. You used to love coffee."

"I've changed a lot," she says, flatly. "I drink tea."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

She swallows. "Yes." She narrows her eyes defiantly.

When she sees the flash of surprise on my face, she quickly adds, "We can go across the street to the café if you'd like a cup."

I nod. "Lead the way."

We're silent as we walk out of the building. As we stand on the curb waiting for cars to pass, Justine wobbles a bit in her heels. I steady her by putting my hand on her elbow. It's a gesture done without thinking, one that is as natural as breathing.

She lets out an adorable grunt and regains her footing. She strides across the clear street, her tan legs distracting me with every step. I fight back a grin. Just a quick touch from me and she's already coming unraveled.

The café is better than I thought it would be. I'd expected something down home and southern, like the one her father used to bring us to years ago. Where waitresses in uniforms and beehives snap gum and call patrons 'honey,' and where they'd looked at me, a young Cuban guy, like something from another planet — with curiosity, interest and yeah, mistrust.

But this café's more Miami-style, or trying to be. Minimalist and sleek. I'm enjoying the vibe until I see Justine grinning at a man behind the counter.

"Hey, beautiful," the man calls out.

My instinct is to step closer to Justine and put a possessive hand around her waist. But she's not mine now, so I force myself to stand a couple of feet to her side. I press my molars together.

Justine sidles up to me and presses her shoulder into my arm. "Rafa, what would you like? My treat?"

I get a little zing in my chest every time she calls me Rafa. I take out my wallet and extract my American Express Black Card. "It's most certainly my treat. And my pleasure, Justi."

"I'll, um, I'll have a double espresso." She glances up at me through her lashes and shoots me a tiny smile. "For old time's sake."

I don't break her gaze. "Same," I say. Justine and I grin at each other and don't look at the guy behind the counter who called her beautiful. Because right now, it doesn't matter that anyone else is in the room.

It only matters that she's looking at me like she used to.

At least I think she is.

"There' a lot of unused space in this building."

Justine sends a glare in my direction. "I told you. We haven't been able to replace employees as they quit or retire. We don't have the money."

We'd sucked down our espressos, and now caffeine is coursing through my veins, making me feel more alive. Or maybe that's Justine's presence. She turns to me with a pleading look.

"Maybe we need a break. I have a lot of email to check and some things to catch up on."

"I'm sure everything can wait, no? I've come all this way, Justine. I'd like to see the rest of the building today."

She inhales for three full seconds and clenches her fist. "Okay." She unfurls her hand and yanks open a door. "This way to the pressroom."

I follow her into the stairwell, which is un-air conditioned and smells even more like mold and funk than her office does. As we walk down three flights of stairs, I notice buckets filled with tea-colored water in the corners of the stairwell landings. I stop near one bucket and point.

"Is there a leak in the roof or something?"

Justine, who is halfway down the next staircase, looks up and frowns. "No. Those are moisture absorbers. For the humidity. They're not doing their job. Or they need to be changed. I don't know." She makes a grunting noise and continues down the stairs.

At the bottom, she puts her hand on the door and yanks. It doesn't open. "Dammit," she whispers.

"Let me try," I say, reaching around her. She doesn't move, which means my arm skims her body.

I pull on the door. "Nope. It's not budging. Do you have a key?"

She unzips her purse while swearing under her breath. "I have too much damn stuff in my bag," she grumbles. I stifle a grin. She'd always carried a lot of crap in her purse. Never could find what she wanted.

The stairwell is only semi-lit, a yellow glow that makes both of us look exhausted. Or maybe we're already spent from being in each other's presence. Sexual tension can take a lot out of a person.

As she paws around her purse, she wobbles on her heels. Since I think she's about to topple over, I catch her by the upper arms. She stiffens, and I know I should release her.

But I can't.

I won't.

Instead, I draw her a few inches closer, her back against my front. She's so close I can feel her warmth and see the familiar freckle behind her ear. I think I might feel her heartbeat, or possibly it's mine. When I'm this close to her, it's hard to tell where I end, and she begins.

She shudders in a breath. "Rafa."

I swallow and allow my nose to touch her hair for a fraction of a second. I can't help myself. She smells the same, sweet and sugary. I can practically taste her on my lips.

"Rafa. I'm fine." Her haughty tone reminds me that I'm acting needy, something I never do. Never have, except with her. She wrenches herself out of my grip, keys in hand, and unlocks the door with a fierce twist of her wrist. I feel my face burn with humiliation for being weak and I step far away from her. I'm cold the rest of the afternoon, asking her question after question about her failing newspaper, as we stare at each other like two predators in a small cage.

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