Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rayne
“Excuse—”
“Loo-nah?” The name slips out like instinct.
It lands differently here. Daylight. Public. Campaigning.
I cast a quick, meaningful glance down the street at the baby carriages, dog walkers, and residents moving through their afternoon, before looking back at him. Bayside is small, and the sunlight could too easily expose secrets.
“Rayne.” He recovers in an instant, restoring his professionalism. He steps aside just enough to clear the door, but stays close enough that I can feel the kinetic pull of him. “How’s the campaign trail?”
“Great.” I lean against the brick entranceway. Talking on the phone keeps us grounded in our connection, but it doesn’t compare to this—the real, smell-good, warm-skin version of him.
I let my eyes roam. His suit jacket is gone in surrender to the heat, the shirt sleeves are rolled to his forearms, teasing me with the ink on his skin. Beads of sweat glisten at his temples.
The urge to touch him is so visceral, I ache.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me—hot, focused, entirely aware—the reaction is mutual. But we keep it cool and controlled.
“I heard my line at the rec center was substantial this morning,” I say, not ashamed to boast. “Almost double Diablo’s turnout.”
A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. “You’re clearly giving people a reason to show up.”
“This neighborhood will be hit hardest by Diablo’s destruction plans.”
“Rebuilding is not destroying,” he says mildly. “But I don’t discount the pier’s intrinsic value. I know it has been part of people’s lives here—where children play, where tourists visit.”
“Exactly. It protects the shoreline and holds stories.”
“The haunting of a lover lost to the lake,” he says, impressing me that he took the time to look into the lighthouse’s history.
“Then you know it’s more than just some old, worn building, waiting to be replaced.”
“I understand your commitment,” he says. “You should keep standing for what you believe in.”
It’s his quiet way of reminding me that even on opposite sides, he’s still in my corner. That’s what makes the conflict easier to carry.
“I should go,” I tell him when our stare stretches too long. “Anika will be here any minute.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth before lifting back to my eyes. “It’s a long day. Stay hydrated.”
“I will.”
“We’ll talk tonight,” he adds for my ears only. “I have a plan.”
That sends a silent thrill through me. To anyone watching, we probably look like two political opponents exchanging polite conversation. But the flush all over my body and the erratic beat of my pulse say exactly what we are.
I let him see the excitement in my grin before I straighten away from the wall. But the second my weight shifts, rubbing the swollen skin against the back of my shoes, I stifle a wince.
DK notices anyway. His hand moves like he’s about to steady me, stopping just short of my waist before he catches himself. “You’re limping.”
“It’s nothing.” I offer a dismissive wave. “Just a minor disagreement with my shoes.”
“Looks like more than minor.” His brow furrows. “Let me see.”
“In the middle of 15th Street?” I murmur, glancing toward the café window. “I’m fine. It’s just a blister.”
“Rayne—”
“Go handle your campaign, Dakarai. That needs more attention than my heels.”
He doesn’t look amused or convinced. He looks like a man who wants to pick me up and carry me to comfort.
It’s an image I don’t mind at all, but I do my best to fake a steady gait as I walk into the café.
The only thing distracting me from the stabbing pain is having those few sacred minutes with him—and the thought of whatever carefully arranged plan he has waiting for us.
I stop to chat with some of the patrons, because every chance I get to engage with voters is an opportunity to learn and gain their trust. When I’ve shaken the last hand, I find a table and drop into the chair, kicking off my flats under it.
The relief is almost orgasmic. Fortunately, Joe’s Pharmacy is right around the corner because stuffing my shoes with toilet paper is not a viable option for the afternoon ahead.
I need industrial-strength intervention.
Anika breezes in, looking polished but parched. “That walk nearly took me out, and you’ve been doing this for hours.”
“Suit and shoes were a fail. I’ll know better tomorrow. Think voters would object to me showing up naked?”
“Depends,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Where would you pin your button?”
The ridiculousness sends us into laughter loud enough to turn heads. I don’t mind that I’m caught being human. We place our orders, and I give her the rundown of my morning. She’s fully locked in until her gaze swerves abruptly toward the door.
“Dakarai Ramos is here.”
Before I can process why he’s back, DK is standing at our table with a white paper bag stamped Joe’s Pharmacy.
“Anika,” he addresses her with a quick, professional nod. “Rayne, I got what they had.”
I immediately catch on. “Thanks for doing me a solid.”
“No problem. Wouldn’t want you injured and claiming a disadvantage when we win.”
“Seems to me, even blistered, I’m running things today.”
“Campaigns are a marathon.” He grins, handing me the bag. Our fingers brush—
just that small touch, after two days of going cold turkey, hits like a full-body power surge. But aware of Anika watching us closely, I keep my face neutral. “What do I owe you?”
“All good. ”
“Thanks again.”
He gives one short nod, then he’s gone.
“What the hell was that?” Anika leans forward, keeping her voice to a whisper.
“Harmless campaign banter.” I stir the straw in my water. “He saw me limping earlier and saved me a trip to the store.”
She takes the bag, rattling the contents, and peers inside.
Her eyebrows shoot so high they nearly disappear into her bangs.
“He bought out the whole store,” she says, removing what amounts to an emergency response kit: bandages in multiple sizes, gauze, antiseptic cream, gel heel inserts, blister pads, and a bottle of electrolyte water.
As I look at the spread on the table, emotion wells in my chest, cascading all the way down to my throbbing heels, and drowning the pain in the absurdity of his overkill. If Lot were here, I’d be squealing, but it’s Anika.
“Guess he wasn’t sure what to get,” I say with a shrug.
My response earns me a hard eye roll. “This looks like a man who went to a lot of thought and care.”
That’s undeniable, so I go with something true but understated. “He’s probably a nice guy.”
“Nice doesn’t drop fifty dollars on his opponent’s feet.”
Our sandwiches arrive, saving me from having to respond. As we eat, I redirect the conversation to the afternoon schedule. She lets the DK questions go, though I can feel her suspicions at the table like a third-wheel lunch crasher.
I’ll tell her, just not today. Telling my dad comes first.
At the end of the hour, we part ways. When she’s out of sight, I duck under a store awning to fire off a text to DK.
Me: I’m walking on clouds. Thank you.
His reply comes seconds later.
DK:
Simple. No flash. Just him.
I sway a little on my cushioned feet.
By five, I’m home, showered, and rebandaged. My sundress swings around my calves as I groove to “Run and Tell That” from Hairspray. I pull the coconut loaf from the oven. It’s that perfect golden brown. I season the salmon fillets while the rice cooks and start on the mango-avocado salsa.
My phone rings. I answer on speaker as I chop a jalapeno.
“Did you catch suspicion from Anika?” DK asks.
“Like she was Alex Cross.”
“Who?”
“The detective on Cross. Played by Aldis Hodge,” I add, when it still doesn’t register.
“Oh. So it was bad?”
“I managed to evade, distract, and avoid. But my heels were too happy to mind.”
“They’re feeling okay then?”
“Much better. All bandaged up while I get dinner ready. My father’s on his way.”
“Nervous?” he asks, which I suspect is the primary reason for him calling ahead of our ten o’clock schedule.
“Only about the lying. Not about you. He’s going to be fine once he hears everything.”
DK’s silence says he believes otherwise. He can’t imagine how my father could see a man trying to defeat his daughter as anything other than a threat.
“Can you send me his number so I can call him later?” he asks.
“This isn’t Bridgerton.”
“What’s that?”
I shake my head. “Your lack of good TV knowledge is sad. I just meant you don’t need to get his permission.”
“It’s not permission,” he says. “It’s respect. I want to speak for myself on how I feel about his daughter.”
Aw. This man has me ready to propose. “He’ll actually love that.” A knock sounds at the door. “He’s here.”
“Ngikhona nakuwe,” he says, deep and warm. “It means I’m with you.”
“I know you are, boo. Talk to you tonight. Mwah.” I end the call and go answer the door.
“Hi, Dad.”
Montell Webber looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ summer edition. He’s casual-chic in an unstructured tan blazer over a white cotton T-shirt, beige chinos, and brown leather loafers.
“Hey, Pumpkin.” His eyes crinkle. “Is that coconut I smell?”
“The key to your heart,” I joke, accepting his bone-crushing hug.
He’s been the steady harbor in my life. Someone who loves me unconditionally, whose support has never faltered. Telling him the truth will be a huge relief. Just maybe not as the opening act.
I lead him to the kitchen, where he pops the cork on the bottle of wine he brought and pours us each a glass. His gaze drops to my bandaged heels, and he frowns.
“From street-stomping?”
“In the wrong shoes. But other than that, the day was great.” I fill him in while we prepare dinner together like old times.
“How’s Farah?” I ask, nudging his shoulder. “Any new developments?”
“Nope. She’s still a wonderful companion,” he says, reciting the usual script. “We enjoy the symphony, good food, and antiquing. This works. No reason to add a shared zip code.”