Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Rayne
Stay visible. Following Anika’s advice, I stop by the café for my morning coffee instead of having a cup at home. The aroma of espresso and baked goods hangs thick in the air. It’s packed—locals and tourists fill the tables and form a line from the door. Many are familiar faces, some are not.
I’ve always been a people person. I’m naturally curious and interested in others, traits I get from my dad. He says my structure and planning come from my mom. I look a lot like her, too. I once asked if it was hard for him to see so much of her in me, but he said it was a gift.
“Rayne!” Sophia—Chaz’s little sister—pops out from behind the counter and pulls me into one of her effusive hugs. Twenty-two, resembles a younger Alicia Keys, with sandy-brown hair in bo-ho braids down to her waist. Sophia is all bubbly energy and sunny smiles.
“Congratulations,” she beams.
“Thanks. I got your e-card. When did you get home?”
“Last night. I’m taking a long weekend to attend the festival and help C and Lex at the café and with the wedding plans. It’s only three months away.”
“I’m so excited for them.” Lexie, who’s an adopted Baysider, was a welcome addition to Chaz’s life and mine. She did all the stunning photography for the winter brochure.
“How’s Chicago and the world of advertising treating you?” I ask.
“Good.”
I make a face. “Good isn’t in your vocabulary. Either you love something, or you don’t.”
“I don’t not love it.” Her nose wrinkles. “I just… thought I’d love it more. Being on my own in the big city. Working in advertising like I always wanted. But I miss Bayside. I miss C. I miss the café. All this.” She gestures around the crowded room.
“It’s only been a few months,” I remind her. “Homesickness comes with spreading your wings. Give it time.”
“I will.” Her smile brightens again. “So what about you? Running for mayor. When you win, I’ll get to say I knew her back when she babysat me.”
“Ugh.” I was fourteen, and Soph was six. “That makes me sound ancient.”
She laughs. “I better get back to work—and it looks like you’ve got people waiting to talk to you. See you at the festival.”
Sophia heads back behind the counter, and I start working the room. The conversations are fruitful: talking to potential voters from my heart—not a script—listening, making notes of their needs and concerns. While in the back of my mind, I’m counting down the hours until the debate meeting.
DK had sent an agenda. Totally professional.
Today, he won’t be the same man who waited for me outside the bathroom at The Ship Mate.
The same one who tempted me with the promise: I can be discreet.
No doubt he could be. He transitions so effortlessly into that armor of composure.
I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, which means I’m going to have to really psyche myself up before I step into that boardroom.
By the time I leave the café, I’m energized from the interactions and my notes page is full. C teases that he’s going to add Rayne Webber Campaign Headquarters on his door. I send my notes to Anika so she can fold them into the master list, flagged by follow-up actions and priority.
I work through lunch on the final festival details, and I’ll probably stay late too.
I expected this transition period to be demanding, and I know the load won’t get any lighter once the campaign is in full swing.
That part doesn’t faze me. I just have to figure out the balance—how to do this without burning myself down to the wick.
At a quarter to four, I pack my tablet and walk over to meet Anika in the lobby of a law office that she and DK had agreed to.
Did I make sure I looked like a woman standing ten toes down? You bet your ass I did. Hair slicked back into a low bun. Make-up light. Lips painted Cabernet Slay. A sleeveless, sheath dress in ruby-red. Knee-length with a gold zipper running down the length of my back.
Anika lets out a low catcall. “Girl, you’re dressed to kill.”
“Not too try-hard?” I ask.
“Not at all.” She gives me the finger-to-thumb clap. “You didn’t come here to tiptoe. You’re here to stomp on these boys.”
I laugh at her pep talk, but the reminder works. My matching ruby-red heels click confidently across the glossy white tiles toward the reception desk.
Anika’s in an ivory pantsuit, pixie-cut on point. I love that we’re two badass Black women doing this. When an assistant shows us to the boardroom, I lock my candidate-face into place—and pray it stays there.
It’s empty. No surprise. Diablo called this meeting. He’ll make the entrance. We pour ourselves water from the pitcher and glasses provided, and sit side by side, facing the door.
At four sharp, Diablo enters first, wearing a polo and chinos, all ease and self-assurance.
DK follows close behind, in a suit with a pocket square, of course.
The only time I’ve seen him dressed down was at the beach…
and naked. I’m not sure that counts, but the heat winding through my lower belly warns me that thinking about DK naked is a terrible idea right now.
I thought my vibrating nipple clamps and silicone boy-toy last night would be insurance to keep my horny ass quiet. Apparently not.
Anika and I stand out of respect for Diablo’s title.
“Rayne,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to meet. You remember Dakarai.”
“Yes. Hi again.”
DK nods, his gaze sliding over me from behind his glasses—subtle, yet tangible. I feel it skim across my skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. I stifle a shiver and refocus.
“Gabriel. Dakarai. This is my campaign manager, Anika Simms.”
They all shake hands before Diablo gestures for us to sit.
As we do, Anika bumps my leg. Girl-code for that man is fiiine. I pretend not to notice.
Diablo takes the head of the table, like it’s his right. DK sits to his left, directly across from me. His expression within these four wood-paneled walls is all-business—like he doesn’t know exactly how I look and sound when I come apart.
That restraint challenges me to match it. I take control of the meeting before Diablo can.
“I understand you wanted to discuss debate format and scheduling,” I say, directing my attention to my opponent.
“Since this will be your first campaign,” Diablo replies, “I thought it would be helpful to outline standard practices. Get on the same page from the start.”
“I’m all for alignment,” I say evenly.
“Good.” Diablo steeples his fingers and leans back. “Dakarai, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you.” He pulls the agenda onto the wall screen and walks us through it.
A natural facilitator—he asks precise questions, clarifies points of agreement, works through differences to find common ground, and redirects when we drift. Not flashy or loud. Just quiet power.
Like in the bedroom.
I can be discreet.
I shove that down as we lock in on two debates, dates, and media partners. The stall comes at format. Diablo insists both follow the Oxford debate style. Too formal and stiff for what I’m building.
“I want something more hands-on,” I say. “Questions from constituents. Real interaction. A townhall allows for that.”
Diablo shakes his head. “It invites unnecessary volatility.”
“It invites accountability,” I counter. “People deserve direct access.”
“In my experience,” he volleys back, “townhalls devolve into complaint sessions that derail meaningful discussion. If there are concerns, my office is always open. A debate should remain structured.”
“Then structured public questions shouldn’t be a problem. If…” I let the pause stretch, “You stand behind your record.”
Silence drops over the room.
Anika’s expression is two-snaps-and-confetti. Diablo’s is tight-jawed displeasure.
I risk a glance at DK, who I’ve avoided making eye contact with until now, and catch the faintest glint of approval. But he schools it away so quickly, I’m not even sure it happened.
“Mayor Diablo isn’t opposed to voter engagement or defending his record,” DK says with efficiency. “We simply want to preserve flow and keep the focus on policy. The proposed Oxford-style debate allows moderated questions, timed responses, and rebuttals.”
“So can a townhall.” I hold his gaze and my ground. “I’m not suggesting a free-for-all. I’m suggesting prepared questions and a neutral moderator.”
He pauses. Wets his lips. My traitorous brain flashes to our almost-kiss at The Ship Mate and to all the ones we shared at the hotel. Soft lips. Firm pressure that’s on the right side of dominance to turn me on wildly.
“Would you be amenable to that?” he asks.
Say what now? I blink.
Anika nudges my knee—hard. When another beat passes, she jumps in for me.
“Yes, we could agree to that. Oxford style first, followed by a townhall on the second date.”
I drag myself back into the room. My campaign should be the only priority. Not thoughts of kissing DK.
“Gabriel?” he prompts.
“I’ll agree if Guy Adams moderates the townhall.”
“He’s publicly supported your waterfront expansion,” I argue, back in stride. “That’s a hard no.”
Before Diablo can rebut, DK lifts his hand. “Both campaigns can submit a list of acceptable moderators to identify overlap. Anika and I can continue format discussions offline and return with recommendations for your approval. Does that work for everyone?”
“That’s fine with me,” I say.
Diablo nods curtly.
The meeting hadn’t gone the way he hoped.
Not for me either.
DK is lodged so deeply in my head that I have no idea how to get him out.
Or even if I want to.
After the meeting, Anika and I don’t speak until we’re across the lobby and through the front door. Then she stops. Her arms folded, her eyebrows raised in two high arches. “So?”
“I think I held my own despite Diablo trying to flex his experience and play hardball.”
“You did, but that isn’t what I’m asking.”
“Oh?”
“Rayne Webber,” she drawls. “Who you tryna play dumb with? Like I didn’t just watch you and that big hunk of a man eye-fuck so hard I needed a cigarette.”
I scoff, shifting the purse strap on my forearm. “You’re imagining things.”
“I read rooms. That wasn’t just politics. You drifted off like you forgot what decade you were in.”
“I lost my train of thought.”
She holds my gaze and lets the silence work.
“All right, he’s attractive,” I concede the obvious. “We’ve bumped into each other a couple of times. Maybe there’s some chemistry. But that’s it. He works for Diablo. Opposite sides. Nothing sexy about that.”
Anika rolls her eyes. “Rivals to lovers… romance movies and books thrive on that stuff. Just don’t start taking risky chances,” she warns.
“When have I ever done that?”
“Never,” she admits. “But I’m not underestimating your weakness for that particular brand of caramel chocolate.”