“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. Hetransitions 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 addRayne Webber Campaign Headquarterson 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 isfiiine. 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 thesefour 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.
