Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
RAFAEL
She’d sent him six messages in the space of five minutes.
LITTLE BEA: Are you sure about picking them up tonight?
LITTLE BEA: I could tell them you’re busy. Or sick.
LITTLE BEA: Do you want them to Uber instead? I can call them an Uber.
LITTLE BEA: Maybe I could tell your mother they can’t make it
LITTLE BEA: Ugh but I don’t want to offend her
LITTLE BEA: And my parents would ask why I canceled which might be worse
Her name kept popping up on his screen like little hits of dopamine. There was something darkly satisfying about how fast she could unravel herself over text.
He thumbed a reply.
RAFAEL: Breathe
Three bubbles appeared, disappeared, then reappeared like a stammer.
LITTLE BEA: What if they hate you?
RAFAEL: They won’t
LITTLE BEA: But what if they do?
He smiled, the kind that would get her back up if she saw it.
RAFAEL: The fact that you want them to like me is good
Her response was nothing but dots, then silence.
RAFAEL: We’ll see you girls at the courts at nine
He slipped the phone into his pocket, turning back to the blueprints in front of him. Focus returned, but the clock ticked louder with every passing minute.
Finally, he stood, jacket in hand.
At seven thirty, he was parked at the curb. Always on time, but tonight it mattered more. Bea’s father came down the steps first. They shook hands, steady grip meeting steady grip.
“Hello, sir.”
Her umma followed. “You’re punctual,” she said, a tenuous sort of approval in her voice.
Rafael opened the rear door for her and gestured inside. “My mother doesn’t permit otherwise.”
That earned him the smallest smile as she settled into the back. Bea’s father took the passenger seat beside him, and the car slid into the evening light.
Traffic thinned as they left the city and headed up the coastal road. For a while, it was easy. But beneath the small talk, he felt them closing in on what they really wanted to ask.
It came sooner than he thought.
“You’ve known our daughter for some time,” Bea’s father said, elbow resting on the doorframe.
“Three years,” he said, indicating left. “She arrived, I noticed. Haven’t stopped.”
No hedging. No prettying up the words.
Yes, even when she was with him.
He felt them absorb that admission.
Umma leaned forward slightly. “You seem like you’re putting in a lot of effort.”
A breath left him, nearly a laugh. “Ma’am, this isn’t me trying. This is me holding back.”
Her papa’s gaze cut to him. “What would you do if you didn’t hold back?”
Rafael sat straighter, jaw flexing once as if to bite back the surge in his chest, then stilled again. “Everything I’m capable of. Whatever it takes.”
“If I use the word intentions, will you understand the breadth of what I mean by that?” Her papa’s hands were steepled.
“I do, sir.” The light turned red. He braked to a stop, then met the man’s eyes. “My intention is to earn her trust. And her future.”
“Do you think she’s shown she wants either from you?” her umma asked from the back.
“Yes, ma’am. I think so. Not promises, but signs.”
Her parents didn’t confirm or deny, only listened, measuring every word.
“I believe my daughter is more than good enough for the UR.” Bea’s papa’s voice was laced with pride. “But your world has expectations. And some of those expectations meant she had a very difficult year.”
The light turned green and he accelerated. He kept his hands loose on the wheel, even though he wanted to close his fists. King lived in those unspoken syllables.
“I know. She didn’t go to London last year because it wasn’t right. Not the right place. Not the right time.” Rafael left the words there, like a card turned face up. “She doesn’t need to change for me. All she has to do is say yes.”
“Do you think you have a chance, Rafael?” Umma’s smile softened the words.
He exhaled through his nose, then rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture more thoughtful than wry. “I think I’ve made mistakes. But I also think I see her more clearly than anyone else.”
Neither parent filled the quiet.
“Her name, Beatriz. It means ‘she who brings happiness,’ doesn’t it?” He caught each of their eyes briefly.
Umma glanced at her husband, then back at him. “Yes,” she said softly. “She’s been our happiness all her life.”
Rafael paused. Not for effect. Because they needed to hear how serious he was about what came next. “I want to be the man who keeps her free to be who she is.”
The air thickened after, crowding the car.
Her father slapped his thigh, like there were no more words needed for now. Her mother’s eyes stayed on him a moment longer in the mirror, then the side of her mouth tipped upward as if to say, good luck.
“Your mother is a force,” Bea’s umma said after a moment, shifting the conversation.
“She’s part of why my father is the man he is,” Rafael said wryly.
“Good to grow up with a strong model of marriage,” her papa said.
Rafael gave a short nod. “Not perfect, but it taught me something.”
“What’s that?”
“Strength chooses strength.”
They circled back to safer topics—construction, coastline, the late-spring sunset. But the silences between them spoke louder. He knew he’d said enough.
“Well? How bad was it?”
Rafael only looked at her, rolling the basketball between his hands.
Bea’s eyes flicked to the four bodyguards, his and Laurent’s, but they were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear…if she could manage to keep her voice down.
“Tell me.” She marched closer, still wound up from hours of half teaching Nico because her brain was stuck in silent agony. “Did they interrogate you? Did my dad—he has this thing he does with his eyebrows—”
“You’ve had nearly a year of lunches with my mother,” Rafael said. “You think I can’t handle one drive with your parents?”
She blew out a breath. They weren’t together. They weren’t anything. So why did it feel essential to know what had been said in that car?
“Stop worrying, little Bea.”
Stop worrying? Stop worrying that he’d been with her parents for twenty-five straight minutes unchaperoned?
But he wasn’t tense, so it couldn’t have gone that badly for him. And he wasn’t smug, so it couldn’t have gone that badly for her.
Which meant the world hadn’t ended and maybe she would survive this visit after all.
“It went well. Well enough. That’s all you get.” He didn’t laugh, but the glint in his eyes said he wanted to. Then he tilted his chin toward the court. “We’re here to play, not download.”
Mentally she shook herself hard. Basketball. Focus.
“Interrogation hour is over,” Claire called out, clapping. “Team up.”
Bea jogged over to Claire, who had done her hair in a half-dozen braids, resembling cornrows. She had the aura of someone who’d Googled “how to win at basketball” and believed anything was possible if she just believed. “We’re going to destroy them, Beya Slaya.”
Bea scrutinized the two six-foot-something men with their military-grade genetics. Rafael rolled his neck. Laurent was doing a stretch that looked vaguely yogic.
“Define ‘destroy,’” Bea said skeptically.
“Win with style.”
“We have an average height of five foot five and a half, and zero experience.”
Claire airboxed twice, psyching herself up. “Exactly. Which is why we’re going to play dirty.”
“Ooo.” Bea perked up. “Good strategy.”
The four of them met in the middle of the court.
“First team to ten wins,” Laurent said. “One point per basket.”
“Losers make dinner,” Rafael slid in, as if it were nothing.
They should categorically not take this bet. It reeked of bad decisions and hubris. Bea opened her mouth to say as much—
“You’re on.”
Her gaze whipped to her best friend. “Claire!”
But Claire’d already shaken hands with Laurent.
Bea dropped her head, part humor, part resignation. There was no point arguing now. Claire had absolutely done this to them before.
“Let them have the first possession,” Laurent said to Rafael. Then he turned to Claire, serving her the ball in his open palm. “Show me what you’ve got, chérie.”
Claire grabbed Bea’s hand and whispered, “We run. We pass. We foul if needed. If you need me to bite someone, yell Dracula.”
“Got it.”
It began.
The first ten seconds were pure chaos.
Claire barreled at Rafael, shouting about tax fraud. The sheer absurdity bought Bea an opening to sprint past Laurent, who stepped aside with an actual bow, like a valet opening a door.
“Don’t help me,” she hissed, launching the ball at the hoop and missing everything but air.
Laurent caught the rebound, passed to Rafael, who jogged backward while dribbling. The girls chased him down the court. Claire tried to block him, and in response he simply lifted the ball over her head like she was eight.
“Rude!” Claire caterwauled.
“Just tall, Claire,” Rafael corrected.
“You’re being condescending,” Bea accused, trying to help steal.
“Not at all.” Rafael’s green eyes locked on hers. “Small’s an advantage. For some things.”
She did not need to be thinking about what ‘things’ he meant when she and Claire were fighting for their lives.
Send help. Preferably tall.
After sinking the layup, Claire went to pass the ball back in.
Bea managed to get her hands on it for half a second before Rafael tapped it away. “That was totally a foul!”
He winked, passed to Laurent, who sank a one-handed shot while saying something in French that sounded like an insult but might’ve been poetry.
Next round, Claire bulldozed past Laurent and tossed Bea the ball. She tried to dribble, but the second Rafael started to jog toward her, every line of his body spelling out pursuit, her survival instincts kicked in.
She hugged the ball and ran in the opposite direction.
Rafael followed close behind, not quite touching her, but keeping within a foot of wherever she was. When she turned, he was already there.
She squeaked. Actually squeaked.
And then, because he was a fiend, he leaned in and murmured, “You always going to make that sound when I’m this close?”
Her mind tripped over itself and face-planted.
Claire had been chasing her down the court, yelling that their basket was on the other side.
Bea hurled the ball at her. “Your problem now!”
By some miracle Claire caught it, ducked under Laurent’s arm, and hucked it from half-court.
It banked off the backboard and dropped in clean.
There was a stunned silence as everyone stood, blinking.
Claire pointed both fingers at the sky. “Skill, baby! One point!”
Bea ran to her and they high-fived as though they’d won the game.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Rafael said, genuinely startled.
Laurent just stared at Claire—eyebrows arched, mouth fighting a smile, like he wasn’t quite sure if he’d just been outplayed or flirted with.
Claire swaggered. “Tell your friends. We’re on the board.”
It was their only point on the board. By the ninth, things had devolved.
“Three-second hug zone!” Claire yelled, wrapped around Laurent’s shooting arm like a deranged koala. He wasn’t even trying to shake her off. “Bea get that ball!”
“I’m trying,” Bea snapped, teeth clenched. Rafael dribbled fast and low, watching her circle him in what could generously be called defense.
He whipped it behind his back to Laurent, who, without breaking a sweat, lifted his other hand and flicked it toward the hoop.
Claire howled in betrayal as the shot arced.
Nothing but net.
RAFAEL
Her shirt clung damp to the small of her back. Strands of hair had slipped free to curl against her flushed cheek. Rafael’s fingers itched to touch her.
“One more game. Switch. You’re with me.”
Bea squinted. “I thought you liked winning.”
He got close enough that he felt the warmth of her skin. “Don’t worry, little Bea. I don’t lose.”
They reset, his shoulder brushing hers in passing. It was enough to send fire in his bloodstream. On this court, he could play it the way he meant to live it. New loyalties were forged in an instant; all four bodies were built to compete.
They began.
He locked Laurent down shoulder-to-shoulder, feet light, arms high. Out of the corner of his eye, Bea mimicked his stance. She was scrappy. Imperfect, yet refusing to yield. Sweaty, focused, mouth set.
The score hit 9–9. Claire looked like she was mentally preparing for the next Olympics. Laurent had gone quiet and calculated.
Rafael tracked the little furrow between Bea’s brows. The way her legs braced. Ready to fight beside him. He wanted her for the fight in her veins, the hunger in her eyes. Close to him. Not just tonight. Always.
He glanced at the basket. Then at her. “You want the point?”
Her dark eyes caught his, and she nodded. “I want it.”
“Okay. Don’t miss.”
“No tricks.”
He caught the inbound pass, spun away from Laurent, and launched it at her. She caught it, barely, before Claire swatted.
“Illegal!” Bea cried, guarding it with her whole body. “Unethical!”
“It’s called defense!” Claire shouted back.
“Lache rien,” Laurent called out, amused. “Don’t let her go.”
Bea’s eyes darted to Rafael. “Do something!”
“You said no tricks.”
“I changed my mind!”
He was already behind her. Both hands at her waist, her skin hot beneath the fabric, driving upward with her weight in his hands.
Bea shrieked, airborne. “What are you doing?!”
“Winning.”
“This is cheating!”
“You said you wanted the point.”
She flailed, laughing, outraged, limbs everywhere. He locked her against his shoulder with one arm, the other angling her toward the rim. She reached.
Her fingers barely grazed the rim—
And the ball dropped in.
He set her down in a controlled bounce, her body sliding against his for one dizzying second before she staggered back, flushed and panting.
“Sweet mercy.” Claire was doubled over, wheezing. “That was unscrupulous!”
Laurent looked betrayed. “I feel violated by that entire sequence.”
Claire rounded on him instantly. “Why didn’t you think of that?”
Rafael wiped the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his singlet. “Score’s ten.”
“We won?” Bea asked.
“We did.” He held out his hand and she high-fived him eagerly.
“I dunked!”
Claire stared. “You were airlifted.”
“Still counts,” Bea said proudly, bouncing on her toes.
“Interesting use of human equipment,” Laurent deadpanned.
“He was being innovative,” Bea said, body angling ever so slightly in front of him, as if defending him. “Because we are disruptors.”
For a second, no one said anything. Then Claire snorted. Laurent broke. The three of them folded, gasping.
Rafael didn’t join the laughter. He just watched Bea, heart burning with satisfaction.
Because she’d said we.