Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Rayne
“Mom sent me the announcement,” Lot says, and I see her on the screen tapping her finger to her thumb, giving me props. “So proud of you.”
“Congrats, Rayne,” Dice adds, sliding his handsome face into frame with the diva cat Miss Queenie. Her resting snarky expression is a twin to Lot’s.
“Thanks,” I say, dully. The effort to muster the excitement I should be feeling, out of reach.
Lot shoots me a side-long glance. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shrug it off. Seeing DK at the beach had wrecked every intention I had to put him out of my mind.
Shorts showing off those fine, thick legs.
All sweaty and gorgeous, staring like he wanted to throw me down in the sand without a care for who was watching.
I stepped fast, getting away before I did something dumb, like let him.
“I’m just tired.”
But Lot knows me too well. “Dice, let me talk to my girl real quick.”
“Sure.” He presses a kiss to her temple.
I love that my cousin has a man who treats her right, but this longing for DK is making me envious as hell.
“Good luck with campaigning,” he says, scooping up Queenie.
“Thanks, Dice.”
Once he’s out of shot, Lot leans in, one eyebrow quirked. “So what’s really going on?”
“Can’t I just be a cranky, tired bitch?”
“Yeah. But that’s not it. I’d think getting some good D and announcing your run would have you floating, not sulking.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Girl, you really gonna make me work? ’Cause you know I’ll go full-excavation on your ass, if I have to.”
“Okay, fine. I’m sulking,” I sigh, curled up on the couch. “But I can’t talk about it.”
“Whatcha mean you can’t talk to me about it?”
“It’s not you.” I break off another chocolate square from the Swiss almond bar I’ve almost demolished. “You’re my Day One. I want to tell you everything, but I can’t. I signed an NDA that represents a promise to him.”
“The Gentle Giant?”
I nod, the chocolate melting on my tongue. “It’s a whole clusterfuck.”
“Girl, why?” Her voice softens. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
“I know. But it feels wrong without his permission.”
“You look about ready to bust,” she says, reading the tension in my body.
“I am.” I snap off another square. “You warned me, but I didn’t listen. You said I wouldn’t be able to separate my kitty from my head. I thought I could have a fun night and be done.”
“Oh, girrrl.” The way she elongates the word sounds as pitiful as I feel.
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” I say in my defense.
“Good food, good company, and straight-up sex—that’s it.
But he was… unexpected. Not like these trifling men out here.
He was smart, caring, funny, sweet… generous in bed and emotionally available.
I haven’t come across that before. We really talked. Really vibed.”
Her brow knits. “You fell for him?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not exactly. But I could. That’s the problem. There’s something there. And he said it’s the same for him.”
“You spoke to him after the hotel?”
“Yeah.” But I leave out the fact that I saw him.
“Okay, so if it’s mutual, what’s the issue?”
“That’s the part I can’t explain without telling you who he is. But being together just isn’t possible.” Opposite sides. Competing visions. “We agreed to leave it at that one night and move on. It’s better that way.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Damn. ”
The day after my announcement, the office is buzzing when I arrive. My assistant, Natalia, who we call the task tyrant, looks frazzled.
“The phone’s been going crazy,” she explains. “Calls of congratulations, requests for meetings, volunteers offering to help.” She holds up a finger to take another call. “I’ll be sure to pass it along. Thank you for calling. That was Mrs. Whitmore.”
My twelfth-grade Civics teacher, my favorite class, next to Social Studies. “Thanks for holding it down,” I say. “Anika is setting up the campaign office. Please send all volunteers to her, and share my calendar. I’ll get this off your plate by next week. Can you hang in there until then?”
“For sure.” She smiles.
“You’re the best. Seriously. Thank you.”
“I want you to win.” Her brown eyes gleam. “Not just because you’re a woman—though it would be cool if you were Bayside’s first—but because I think you’ll do a great job. So whatever you need, I’m here.”
I squeeze her shoulder, humbled by the support.
She hands me a stack of yellow message slips, which I take into my office with a second cup of coffee.
Aware that I’m still officially on the clock for my day job for another two weeks, I spend the morning on tourism business, finalizing all the details for the annual summer festival, and working with Symone to make sure she’s up to speed.
I use my lunch break to return campaign-related calls and emails, putting Mrs. Whitmore at the top of my list.
At one, I grab the chicken salad I brought from home, part of the meal prep I do every Sunday.
I stretch my neck from side to side, feeling the previous night catching up.
I function best on seven solid hours of sleep, and I’d barely scraped together fragments—my mind racing like it was stuck on a Formula One loop.
I can’t help thinking about DK. Of what that must be like for him every night. Needing meds or sleep aids just to quiet his brain.
I stop, catching myself.
No more breaking the rules and thinking about DK. No distractions. No obsessing about the enemy. I need my inner Doberman back. My fire. My reason for doing this.
More jobs, funding programs that support women and marginalized communities, protection of the waterfront, and no politician empty talk. I’m going to run a campaign close to the people. For the people. One that actually speaks the language of the community.
Reenergized, the rest of the day flies by with a sense of accomplishment, completing the tasks in my planner. While I pack up, Anika calls with an update.
“Volunteer applications are rolling in. Fundraising activities are lined up. I’m liking what I see from individual contributions—small amounts, but steady volume.
Every dollar adds up.” I hear the energy in her voice, the optimism.
“I also confirmed a luncheon with Women Rising. They’re influential, and their backing could really bolster our campaign. ”
“That’s great news. I was hoping to earn their confidence.”
“You will. And one more thing.” Her tone shifts slightly. “I spoke with Diablo’s strategist. Dakarai Ramos.”
I go still. Then remember to breathe. “About what?”
“Diablo wants to meet to discuss the debate schedule and rules of engagement. I set up something for Thursday at the end of the day, with the four of us. Neutral location.”
“Why can’t you and the strategist just meet?”
“Apparently, Diablo wants you there.” She pauses. “Is that a problem?”
“No. No, of course not.” The lilt in my voice is a little too high. “I’m just juggling both jobs right now.”
“Want me to push it to later?”
“Probably better to just get it over with.”
“You okay, Rayne?”
“Yes. Definitely.” I grab my bag. “Gotta run. I’m having dinner with my father. Thanks for all your hard work.”
“Happy to do it. Say hi to Mo for me.”
“I will. Talk tomorrow.”
I head home to change, pushing aside the dread of sitting across a boardroom table from DK.
Dapper as ever, Montell Webber, is seated on the other side of the booth in a blue and white seersucker suit. He’s always been stylish. That’s where I get my love for fashion.
I went with all-white: wide-leg pants with a halter turtleneck, and peep-toe heels. I gave up on battling the humidity and let my hair curl naturally, using enough water-based gel to drown a fish.
We’re nibbling on breadsticks and sharing a bottle of Pinot Grigio that pairs perfectly with The Ship Mate’s signature seafood platter. It’s our usual, but neither of us is in a hurry to order. Several people stop by to offer congratulations, and each time, Dad’s grin stretches wider.
“You’re really enjoying this,” I say, sipping the chilled wine.
“What’s wrong with being proud of my baby?”
“Not a thing.” I smile. “I like making you proud.”
“You always have.”
“Aww… thanks, Daddy.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “How’s the campaign office coming along?”
“Making progress.” I give him the highlights, then ask about Farah—the woman he’s been seeing—who lives thirty minutes from town.
“She’s well,” he says without offering more.
Mo Webber never remarried. Never had more than a handful of quiet, short-term relationships.
He loved my mother with his whole heart—the kind of love I hope to have someday.
Losing her to a rare blood disease nearly broke him.
He coped by pouring everything into raising me and into writing BIPOC stories for children.
The ones on grief and vitiligo hit the bestseller list. Still, books and me aren’t enough.
“When am I going to meet her? It’s been six months.”
“Farah’s divorced with adult children,” he says, picking up another breadstick. “She likes her freedom, and so do I. We’re content with where we are.”
“I just don’t like the idea of you being alone.”
“Alone doesn’t mean lonely. I’m good, baby.” His smile is somewhat reassuring. “But enough about my love life. What about yours?”
Before I can answer, as if the cruel goddess of fate had cued the moment, DK walks in. For a second, I consider ducking under the table. I can just imagine my father’s reaction and the questions that would raise. With any luck, he’ll get take-out and go.
But luck says: Nah, boo, I’m about to have some fun, so buckle up.
He approaches as composed as he’d been in the office yesterday. “Hello, Rayne.”
I soak up every detail: The slim cut of his slate-gray suit, the paisley pocket square, and the shirt, open at the collar, in pale blue—my favorite color betraying me by looking so, so good on him.
I count six buttons, my fingers itching to pop open each one, and comb them over his broad chest and scratch the rasp of his well-groomed beard.
He watches me, watching him, his stare heated behind his glasses.
The whole effect hits my stomach with butterflies and fireworks at once.
“Hh—” I clear the embarrassing croak from my throat and try again. “Hello.” Small win on the second attempt.
“Montell Webber.” Dad jumps in like he’s chair of the welcoming committee. “Mo. Rayne’s father.” He extends his hand.
DK shifts his attention to him, something easing in his expression as if he’s relieved I’m not on a date. Or maybe I’m imagining that.
“Dakarai Ramos.” He shakes his hand.
“Ah. Diablo’s man.”
“I’m my own man, sir,” he says easily. Then smiles. “But yes, I work for Diablo.”
The subtle tug at the corner of my father’s mouth tells me he’s impressed by that response.
“My first time here.” DK gestures to the restaurant. “Someone mentioned it has the best seafood.”
Heat crawls up my neck at the veiled reference to that night—the one I’m trying desperately to forget.
“You can’t go wrong with anything on the menu, but the platter is the best way to sample a little of everything,” Dad suggests.
“Guud idea, thanks.”
“Do I hear an accent?”
I could bop my father with a breadstick for prolonging this conversation.
“Yes, South African. From Gauteng. Kempton Park, specifically. About twenty miles from Johannesburg.”
“What was that like?” Dad asks.
My fingers grip the edge of the table, enduring his voice, his scent, his nearness… and the ache from still wanting him. But I convince myself this is for the best—exposure will build up my resistance like an antibody.
“I grew up there in the nineties,” DK says. “It was a time of change—still living in the shadow of apartheid. My parents sacrificed everything to give my brother and me a better life when we immigrated to Chicago.”
“That shaped you.”
DK nods. “It did.”
“So, Gauteng to Chicago to Washington, and now Bayside.” My dad observes. “That’s quite the trajectory.”
“Law and politics interested me. I studied both and put them to use in D.C. But an opportunity brought me to Bayside, so here I am.” Then he slips smoothly out of the line of inquisition. “I’ll let you get back to your time with Rayne. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Webber.”
His gaze slides to me—my mouth, then my eyes. “Rayne. It was nice seeing you. Enjoy your night.”
“You too,” I manage, my voice steadier than my heart rate.
He pauses a moment as if he might say something else, then moves away, taking a table for two by the window.
“Should we invite him to join us?” Dad asks.
My gaze snaps to him, my response swift and sharp. “No!”
His eyebrows lift.
“He works for my opponent, Dad.” I soften my tone. “How would that look?”
“Like three people having dinner,” he says mildly. “I liked him, at least on first impression. Polite, confident, with a good head on his shoulders. And the brother knows how to wear a suit. Can’t be mad at that.”
“Maybe another time,” I skirt. “This is supposed to be our date night.”
“You’re right.” He squeezes my hand. “But it’s a shame he works for Diablo. If you weren’t campaigning against each other, instead of handing him his ass, he might be someone you’d date. He looked enamored with you.”
I nearly choke on my wine.
Thankfully, the server comes by to ask if we’re ready to order, distracting my father. While they chat, I sneak another glance at DK looking at the menu. He catches me, and I quickly turn away. Breathing hard and feeling shaky.
If this is any indication of how I’ll handle myself on Thursday… I’m doomed.