The appointment

My hair falls over one shoulder as I quickly turn around. The man's voice may still make me gasp even after all these years.

I look directly into his face, and my stance stiffens. His almost dark, blazing eyes pierce me as my air condenses close to my collarbone. That is when all the memories flash through my mind, recollections that make me feel dizzy with need, longing, and, most of all, sorrow.

"Miguel." I try to mask the anguish in my voice by tightly crossing my arms over my breasts.

Exactly what am I attempting to conceal? Startled? Fury? Want?

All three, to be honest. And a tonne more yet.

"Miguel," I speak out louder and more clearly this time. My stomach is now filled with a group of angry hummingbirds instead of the agony that was previously in my thoughts.

He lets me stare at him without answering. Does he notice that my face is getting hotter, sweatier, and most likely redder?

I blink often, expecting him to vanish like a seductive man-mirage into the early morning dampness.

The black hair was cut short. Lengthy lashes and strong, dark brows frame the gorgeous eyes. The prominent nose with the slight hump in the middle, the bump I used to kiss before he went to sleep at night gently and in the morning. On an otherwise model-handsome face, it's the sole flaw. A small smile sits on his big lips. No, that's a smile. A vicious line twisted into an absurdly seductive grin.

He does not disappear. His brow lifts slightly. I lick my parched lips out of anxiety and want, and then I wouldn't say I like that I have both feelings at once.

However, how was I not able to?

He is one foot taller than me, six feet, three inches. He looks so good, God. More so than during our time together in college.

This could be better.

Even though the charcoal-colored suit jacket accentuates his big shoulders and arms, it hardly seems to contain his muscles. Underneath, he's wearing a white shirt with the first button undone. No tie since I get the impression he wants to give off a cocky, carefree vibe. As though his appearance at my place of business was coincidental.

Miguel never acts by happenstance. He didn't while I knew him, anyway.

Without blinking, he puts his hands in his pockets. He gazes at me and rocks back and forth on his heels as I gasp for breath like a grouper out of water. I have a dry throat.

Is he giggling? Furthermore, why does he glance from the sidewalk to my eyes and back again? As if he's shy, flirty, or uneasy? It's a performance. I am aware of that. He still has lengthy eyelashes. Oh no, damn it. He blinks when he looks at me.

The eyelashes. I will myself not to let out a loud cry of pain.

He blinks once more, and his mouth corners twitch upward.

Yeah, I do not doubt that he knows how he affects me.

I take a deep breath, attempting to control my racing heartbeat. I quickly peek at Amelia, staring at us with a slack jaw. She is aware of our chemistry, of my affection for him, and of my pain at his hands.

She now appears to be afraid of what is going to happen.

What is going to happen next? Time has paused. My stomach starts to feel heavy. The hummingbird troupe has perished.

His sly smile turns into a wide, seductive smile. "Good morning."

I give him my finest, most polished, snarky resting face. "All right. How unexpected." This morning, my voice is the reverse of the air—the exact opposite of what my instinct is telling me. My tone is pure ice, not heated and heavy.

"I know how much you love surprises, Tori." I hold my breath for a few seconds while the dimples on his cheeks deepen and his eyes take on a more ferocious glimmer.

Except for Miguel, no one has ever named me Tori. It was the moniker he would whisper in my ear each time he expressed his love for me.

I bite my lower lip so hard it hurts like hell.

"Miguel," I say acerbically.

"You still find it enjoyable to mention my name? You've now stated it three times.

Forgive him—my nose wrinkles. "I mistook my appointment for one with a senior vice president named Gregory. I had a phone conversation with that person. Of course, I had no idea you would purchase it when I reached out to the Florida Capital a month ago."

He licks his lips as though struggling to contain his laughter and then smiles. Your meeting with my VP took place. However, I chose to take care of the account instead."

I put my arms down. "I wouldn't think the new owner of a multibillion-dollar equity firm had the time for such a minuscule request from a struggling newspaper publisher."

"I give my clients personal attention, Tori."

"Is there anything I can do to help? How fortunate we are."

His gaze darts to my lips. Indeed. How fortunate we are."

With a cool assessment, he steps forward, and I approach him, holding my hand. Though I'm attempting to act professional, all I truly want is to feel his skin against mine. His eyes momentarily widen.

"You won't even shake my hand?" I inquire in a quiet tone.

His smile disappears. We both keep our fingers together and don't blink. Every moment has led to this, even though I've spent years talking about our relationship, cursing him, and hating us both for what we did to each other.

My small hand squeezes his bigger one. The way the birds cease squawking overhead and the palm trees appear to stand motionless—our explosive, unavoidable chemistry. The flavor of his skin makes my mouth swim a little, and I still feel that he is the only person on the planet who can see me for who I am.

Which gives me the creeps.

"Don't you also have a real estate empire to run in Miami?"

He hears the sarcasm in my voice and drops my hand. He briefly appears injured, much like the young man I used to know. But when he flashes that menacing smile once more, the expression disappears. His gaze pierced mine, and I took a shaky breath as he spoke in those dulcet tones.

"Yes, I continue to operate my real estate company. That you've been following my career is encouraging. But I can manage my businesses from anywhere, even in this place. I take it that a dying newspaper has access to the Internet. Is the situation so dire that the utilities have been turned off?

"No, things aren't that bad." I gesture to Amelia while rolling my eyes. Soon enough, we'll discuss the embarrassing state of affairs involving my company. "I assume you recall Amelia? She is presently the CFO of the newspaper."

He turns and gives her his first-ever close-up look. Indeed. Naturally. Since graduation, I haven't seen you. He gestures toward her protruding belly with well-controlled ease. "A newborn is a gift. I'm delighted for you. What is your due date?"

"After a month or so. Miguel, you look amazing! I'm very impressed. You have to be exercising."

I placed my hand on Amelia's back and sighed. "All right. It's time to part ways. Come with me inside."

Miguel laughs. I turn to guide him and Amelia inside the structure, aware that Miguel is watching me intently. I sweep my hair behind my shoulder and peek at him. "Please excuse the, um, pirate." I carefully skirt the dozing man. "Every idiot with an eye patch and a bottle of rum came to St. Augustine this weekend for the pirate parade."

When we reach the bottom of the building's three steps, Miguel lunges up and across my body to open the door for Amelia and me. The thrill of longing goes through me, but I draw away as his warm fingertips brush across my bare arm. I can tell he feels the electricity, too.

I snap to attention, "I've got the door," reaching for the knob. I yank forcefully.

Miguel nearly trips and falls on the last step heading into the building because his expensive-looking wingtip slides. I give him a grin and flick my long lashes in his direction.

I always had the perfect method for undoing him.

We enter the newspaper and stop in a vast, almost empty room. Even though I'm still sweating, I notice the air smells mildew. What new and terrible issue is this? It's different from where a roof leak damaged the copy desk a few months back. Why did I not notice this earlier in the day?

I look at Miguel; wrinkles appear on his nose. Cute as pie. His mouth twists. Cute as pie. His expression twitches as he stares down. Yes, that is also very cute.

I look down when the aroma of onions wafts toward me. A beige filing cabinet with two drawers has an open box on top containing a greasy piece of pizza. One bite has been removed from the tip of the slice.

Reporters are swine.

I cough lightly, wondering if the night editor personally paid for the pizza or if it was covered by the newsroom budget. If it's the latter, I will kill him.

Because two people can play this game, I call him "Miki," using my former monicker. "Perhaps you recall this. Perhaps you don't, though. The newsroom is here."

When I name him Miki, he winces for a beat. I wave my hand, pointing to a reporter, two editors, and one of them. They all seem to be guys who have only ever worn ill-ironed blue button-down shirts, drunk cheap draft beer, and spent their free time reading the AP Stylebook—which is probably the case. I find it surprising that they are even at work at this hour. When they see us, they get alert.

Miguel is overdressed for this group of people. I also never wear heels very often. People are taking notice of us. I'm sure people will believe I'm trying to sell the paper, and we'll be the talk of the town for the remainder of the day.

"Adam, welcome back from your vacation!" I greet the weathered old city editor, who appears to have gone three days without showering, grinning, and maintaining a cool, collected tone. I suspected he had taken his holiday at the nearby dog track.

He asks, smiling, "Got a job interview, Victoria?" referring to my shoes. Despite his disheveled, Jimmy Buffet meets skid row drunk fashion sense, my dad hired him twenty years ago, and he's a fantastic editor.

If I were still a reporter, I would have slapped him on the wrist because, in a newsroom, it's normal for employees to act quite inappropriately toward one another. But now that I'm in command, I must behave like a grownup.

I turn to face Miguel. To check his watch, he flips his wrist. I suppress the want to shake him until he pays attention.

His eyebrows shoot upwards. "Victoria, how many employees does the Times currently have? Surely not everyone is like this?"

"Many more in various divisions, a couple dozen in the newsroom. The majority of reporters are currently on assignment. Alternatively, I choose not to elaborate; they have yet to arrive because they're too sleep-deprived or preoccupied with sending their resumes to the three public relations positions in the city.

A grin appears on his face. "A few dozen? It's a significant decrease from ten years ago. Yes, a lot has changed.

I whisper, "Some things have." "Some things remain the same. We continue to aim for high-caliber reporting. And most days, we succeed in doing so."

We look at each other for a prolonged moment. I have an unanticipated surge of emotions that cause my skin to tingle. My eyes sting a little, and I blink quickly. When was the last time I felt tingly around a man?

Forgive him.

How could one little glance ruin my poise? I'm acting illogically and chaotically in terms of emotions. The back of my neck is pricked by sweat. I have to gather my thoughts quickly. We can conduct business together even though Miguel and I were college sweethearts. Even though things didn't work out, we can still act professionally.

Correct?

"Miguel? Is that you?

It's the aging voice of 70-something Hanna, the journalistic doyenne and food and garden writer. Although she usually claims that a lady never talks about her age or weight, I'm still trying to figure out her age. I know she is like a mother to me, and she began working on the paper when my grandfather owned it.

Miguel and I were introduced to her for the first time when I brought him home after our first year of school. It seemed as though I desired her acceptance more than my father's.

"Hannah, it's been so long." Miguel's voice seems sincere and not growly for the first time. With a broad smile, he pronounces her name in Spanish, trilling the r at the end of the word "amor," and throws the little woman into a strong hug. His smile reminds me of the times he was sincere with me. Another spot in my body gets tugged as I trill the r.

I must quit thinking back on our enjoyable moments or anything at all.

I'm enveloped in a cloud of Hanna's characteristic aroma, Yves Saint Laurent's Opium, from 1985. These days, Hanna only attends work when she feels like it, but I still love her too much to let her go from the part-time payroll.

She must, of course, be working today.

When I gave Miguel a newsroom tour during our first Christmas break together, he and Hanna clicked immediately. Hanna and I, he used to say, were the only ones he felt at ease with.

It was that Christmas fifteen years ago, eleven days after our breakup. All of a sudden, I feel old. I reach down and rub my lower back, feeling an ache that is not there.

Amelia approaches me and murmurs in my ear. "Whoa, that's right. Now you're in a bad situation. She had been wanting this for years."

"I am aware. She will genuinely believe that we are reconciling."

Amelia murmurs, "Hmm," gently. "Well, that's an intriguing idea."