When the moment settles, and our bodies cool under the water, I look into her dazed eyes. Still shaken, still undone, I know I won’t just be leaving Luna—I’ll be leaving a chunk of myself behind.
Chapter Seven
Rayne
Iwake Friday morning alone. DK brought me to bed and promised to stay until I fell asleep. He kept his word, holding me in the secure circle of his arms where I nuzzled in and finally drifted off. As much as I wanted him to spend the night, this was better than facing an inevitable good-bye.
The pillow he occupied still carries his scent. On it sits a handwritten note. I pick up the hotel stationery, my heart hollow, already feeling the void.
Tears well up in my eyes. He touched me just as deeply—a man I barely know, yet somehow bonded with in such a profound way. I could contact him through the app. But no. He didn’t leave that door open. The note was heartfelt… and final.
He’d stuck to the rules, and I can’t be angry about that.
But I’m sad. Really sad.
I dry my eyes, fold the note, and press my lips to it, closing out a short but unforgettable chapter. I kick back the blankets and climb out of bed. A good start. I order coffee and eggs over easy with toast, then turn on my phone to find Lot’s texts.
Lot: Hellooo?
Lot: Girl? Where you at?
Lot: You still alive??? If I don’t hear from you I’m calling the police.
Me: Alive and well.
I respond, faking lightness. It’s safer to focus on the sex than the feelings.
Me: Best dick of my life.
Bubbles immediately appear as if her phone was in hand.
Lot: Yasss! Ending your slump with a big ole bang.
Me:
Lot: I’m gonna forgive the emojis bc u must be feeling yo’self
I’m feeling DK, but I don’t say that.
Lot: Call me. I want to hear all dem deets.
Me: Later. I have a spa appt
Lot: Call me right after.
I put my phone down with a weighted breath. I know that if we had actually talked then, she’d see straight through me. And I don’t want to dwell on things that can’t be.
My run for mayor is where all my energy goes, starting Monday. For now, I get ready for my facial at noon and try my damndest not to think about DK.
“Sorry to disturb you on your vacation,” Anika Simms, my campaign manager, says when she calls Saturday afternoon.
I’ve just had a pedicure, and I’m stretched out on the couch in satin PJs, feet propped on the table, working through a crossword. My toes are painted Sunkist Coral. I chose the vibrant shade to get me out of my sad-girl vibes. So far, it’s not working. Thoughts of DK hover on the edge of my mind, moving front and center whenever I’m not otherwise occupied.
Even the crossword’s betraying me. Six-letter word for glum and gloomy.
“Rayne, are you there?”
“Yes,” I say, filling in the squares withmorose. “What’s up?” I set the pen and puzzle aside. Anika wouldn’t have called unless it was something.
