Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rayne
The sheets feel like a cozy cocoon, warmed by the heat of my man beside me.
I gaze up at DK’s sleeping face. It’s all masculine planes offset by a softness around the edges. He told me he loved me. I already knew it even without the words—his actions had been saying it for weeks—but hearing it out loud turned quiet certainty into a bright, ecstatic thrill.
Voices and movement drift up from downstairs, cutting through my haze of happiness and reminding me where we are.
“DK,” I whisper, trying to slip out of his hold, but his strong arms tighten instinctively around my waist.
He hadn’t taken anything to help him sleep last night, but he’s out cold, which makes me hate to wake him. I know restful sleep is still a rare luxury for him. But the alternative of getting caught together in his childhood bed is not the kind of impression I’m trying to make.
“DK.” I gently shake his shoulder.
He grunts, muttering something garbled, without waking.
I bite down on the meaty part of his bicep.
That gets his eyes open.
“You’ve got to go.” I push at his chest. “You weren’t supposed to stay here all night.”
“So that wasn’t a fuck-me bite?” He smiles drowsily as he cups my breast, plumping it in his hand while swiftly hardening against my thigh.
“Stop that,” I hiss, though it comes out closer to a moan. “Your family is downstairs, probably wondering where we are.”
“Damn, you’re sexy when you’re flustered.”
“DK, I’m not playing.” I pull his hand away. “We can’t do this now.”
“But we’re already here, naked and everything.” He nuzzles into my neck, his beard a dense, arousing rasp.
But I hold strong. “Think of Gogo.”
That stops him cold. He lifts his gaze to mine. “You really know how to deflate a man.”
“Desperate times.” I laugh. “Now go.”
“Fine. Tell me you love me first.”
“I love you.” I smack a quick kiss to his lips, then shove him off the bed.
He catches his balance and stands in all his fine-ass glory, grinning at me.
It takes Olympic-level restraint not to drag him right back down onto this mattress.
Instead, I lock him out of the bathroom while I shower.
I hear him in there afterward and try not to picture his soapy body as I wrestle my curls into some semblance of cooperation.
I hadn’t worn my bonnet last night, so they are in need of extra moisture and patient care, which I don’t have time for right now.
So I twist them into a messy bun that works with my outfit: denim shorts and a gauzy smock top that has a nice float to it, rocking that boho look.
When I reach the kitchen, it feels like the definition of Sunday morning.
Birds sing through the open window, and outside there’s the steady hiss of the hose as Angelo waters the lawn.
Naledi and Gogo stand at the stove cooking, and DK—who clearly made it downstairs first to save me any embarrassment—is already making coffee, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms just right.
“Good morning, Gogo,” I say, greeting her first. “Good morning, Naledi.”
They turn together, their smiles warm. “Sawubona, ntanami,” Gogo says. “I hope you woke with an appetite.”
“I did, Gogo.” Then I smile at DK. “Good morning, Dakarai.”
“Good morning, Rayne.” He plays along, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well. And you?”
“Never better.”
We grin ridiculously in love with each other before I ask, “What can I help with?”
That’s all the invitation Gogo needs. She points me toward the flour.
I rely on the structure of a recipe and the tools that ensure a meal turns out correctly, but there are no cookbooks or measuring cups in Gogo’s kitchen.
According to her, the ancestors guide the eye and the hand.
I follow her instructions, working the dough until she declares it ready to shape into soft bread dumplings and lower them into a giant aluminum pot, where the idombolo will steam over a savory stew.
That’s the only nod to traditional comfort food this morning.
Sharing the stovetop, is bacon sizzling in a skillet next to a pan of sunny-side up eggs. Gogo flips the crispy strips with a dramatic cluck of her tongue.
“Ntanami, my ancestors would stage an uprising if they saw me frying these thin slices of meat.” She shakes her head. “America has corrupted my tongue.” But the laugh lines deepening around her eyes say she’s adapted quite well as she transfers the bacon onto paper towels.
Angelo joins us at the table once breakfast is ready, carrying in the scent of fresh-cut grass. Neo isn’t expected to pop in anytime soon after clubbing all night.
Later, when the kitchen is cleaned, Gogo gives me a full tour of her garden, teaching me about herbs and medicinal plants between passionate complaints about the neighborhood squirrels.
By late morning, she and Naledi leave for church, looking stunning in bright Shweshwe fabrics and elegant headwraps.
Angelo decides the loose patio step finally needs repairing and ropes DK into helping him.
I suspect it’s partly a real project and partly an excuse to spend extra time with his son before we head back to Bayside.
The family agreed not to talk about his collapse anymore, but the memory of almost losing him will never disappear.
I use the quiet to go upstairs, pack my things, and check my phone. I’ve kept it off since yesterday evening. The lock screen lights up with several missed texts from Anika, asking me to call her.
The warmth inside me cools instantly. I tap her name, and she answers on the first ring.
“I just saw your messages,” I say, bracing myself. “What’s going on?”
“Some online threads I’ve been monitoring.”
“What kind of threads?”
“Stuff implying you’re not who you say you are. That there’s another side to you that the public doesn’t see. They’re framing your community-focused image as performative, attention-seeking, and power-hungry. Standard smear garbage.”
My stomach drops anyway. “Okay… wow.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t give it energy,” she says, her voice remaining tightly professional.
“But it’s intentional and persistent. Probably Diablo supporters or something opposition-adjacent, trying to seed a narrative before the debate.
I figured it was better you heard it from me before stumbling across it yourself. ”
“I appreciate that, Anika.”
An awkward pause stretches between us. Then I hear her heavy exhale.
“Listen, I’m not going to pretend I’m suddenly on board with you risking everything we’ve worked for.
But…” Her tone loses its distant chill. “After sitting with it, I realized you’ve never done anything reckless in the twenty years I’ve known you. ”
“I wouldn’t just jump into this relationship without thinking it through.”
“I get that.” Then she adds on a dry note. “The Joe’s Pharmacy thing makes a whole lot more sense now. The man is obviously down bad for you. I’d be happier than a pig in shit that you found your person—someone who treats you right—but he works for the other side, so that’s messing with my joy.”
“I understand the conflict,” I say. “It tore at me until I got to know him beyond the attraction. He’s a good man, Anika. He holds me down and lifts me up. He’s come to mean so much to me. But so does my campaign. I’m no less committed to my vision and the people of Bayside.”
“I know.”
“So you’re staying?”
“We’ve been planning your political takeover since eighth grade, Ray.” I can hear her grin now. “One messy choice isn’t getting rid of me. But, girl, if this blows up in our faces, I reserve the right to strangle you personally.”
“That’s fair.” I let out a short laugh, the tension from our fight easing off my shoulders, even as another weight lands in its place. “So what’s the plan with these posts?”
“We don’t engage publicly,” she says, slipping back into tactical mode. “No statements. No feeding it attention. But I’m going to dig into whoever’s running this Bayside Truth Watch page. See whether there’s any real coordination or funding behind it.”
“Thanks for staying on top of this.”
DK walks into the room just as the words leave my mouth.
“On top of what?” he asks after I disconnect.
“Campaign business,” I say evasively, tossing my phone onto the bed. “Anika’s decided to stay on.”
He studies me, aware that’s not the full story, but he respects the headline. “I’m glad, Luna. That must be a huge weight off..”
I nod and go back to folding my dress into my overnight bag. Criticism goes with the territory, but anonymous attacks aimed at my character in such a personal way slide under my skin.
“What else was that call about?”
My eyes lift to his. “I thought we agreed not to talk about our campaigns.”
“The politics of it, yes.” He steps to me, hooking a finger under my chin, and searching my face. “But something upset you. I can see it.”
The agitation inside me churns, seeking an outlet. “Some page called Bayside Truth Watch is pushing narratives about me being fake and power-hungry.”
DK immediately pulls out his phone. I hadn’t looked at the posts myself, and I don’t plan to. I’m not letting nameless trolls derail my focus.
A few moments later, the relaxed ease that had softened him all morning disappears. His attention sharpens behind his glasses as he rapidly scrolls. “This reads almost too clean,” he says analytically. “The way the messages echo each other. Same talking points. Same phrasing.”
A chill moves through me despite the sunlight pouring through the windows.
“In a major city, this kind of thing gets lost in the noise,” he continues, the strategist in him assessing risk. “But Bayside’s small enough for narratives to gain traction.” His gaze gentles on me. “I’ll look into the domain registration right away.”
“No.” The word snaps out. “Anika’s handling it.”
His hand tightens around the phone. “I have resources that can shut this down before it grows,” he says. “Let me help, Luna. I’ve handled smear campaigns like this before.”
God, it’s tempting, which is exactly why it’s dangerous. “I know you have, DK. But it’s not your responsibility.”
For a split second, he looks hurt. “You are my responsibility.”
“Yes,” I say, softening my tone. “I am. But my campaign isn’t.”
“Luna—”
“This is exactly the line we talked about. The minute you start intervening for me politically, where does it stop?”
I can see the tug-of-war battling within him—his protective instincts pulling one way while the boundaries we built pull in the other direction.
“I’m going to get attacked,” I continue. “There’s no escaping that in politics. But if you step in every time somebody comes after me, eventually you compromise your own job.”
His jaw flexes at the truth of my words.
“I love you, Luna,” he says, thick with emotion. “I just want to take care of you.”
“I know, boo.” I slide my arms around his neck and rise onto my toes. “But you can do that without crossing the line. I don’t need you to be my strategist.”
He sets his phone aside before settling his hands in the dip of my lower back and pulling me flush with him. “What do you need from me?” he murmurs.
“This,” I whisper, as he lowers his head and I press my cheek to his. “Just this.”
Because, despite the secrecy, the impossible balancing act, and the growing risks waiting for us back in Bayside, being in DK’s arms always feels like the safest place.