“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 parentssacrificed 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.”
