“And you should. The mayorship is important to you.”
“It is,” she says, her voice deepening with emotion. “Growing up, I didn’t see women like me in leadership. Black. Fat. Vitiligo. I would’ve gladly taken any one of those. Now, I’m bringing all three for the girls of Bayside. So I hope you’re okay with second place.”
My laugh rumbles. “Can’t say I’ll mind that loss. But I won’t go down easily.”
“Opponents on the campaign trail. Partners in the bedroom.”
“I like that arrangement. When it’s just you and me, the campaign is the last thing on my mind.”
“I’m glad you called,” she murmurs.
“Me too. But it’s late. I should let you get some sleep.”
“I don’t want to go yet. But… is this okay for you?” She checks to be sure it won’t make it harder for me to sleep. “Talking before bed?”
“Your voice is relaxing.” I settle deeper into the mattress. “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”
“I told you a lot that night.”
“It can be small.”
She hums, thinking. “Okay. I’d go skydiving tomorrow. Zero fear. But bring an eyelash curler near me, and I’m already flinching.”
“I wasn’t expecting that.” I smile lazily and slip off my glasses. “What is it about an eyelash curler that’s so terrifying?”
“Have you seen those things? Tiny metal guillotines for your eyes. Hell no.”
I laugh quietly, the sound muffled by my pillow. “Fair.”
“Your turn. What are you afraid of?”
Falling first. Falling alone. Falling apart again. But I don’t kill the moment by saying any of that. “Sharks.”
“Why sharks?”
“I watchedJawswith an older kid when I was six. Traumatizing.”
“Aww. Poor little boo. I can picture you hiding behind your friend during the scary parts.”
“Not exactly the image I want you carrying of me.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Her voice dips lower. “ I know you’re all man.”
Damn. I’m crazy about this woman.
Our conversation continues with childhood stories, shifting to family and our everyday lives. I learn that she starts her mornings with showtunes and amber honey in her coffee. The little, private things that feel sacred.
Sheets rustle on her end. I can see her so clearly, curled on her side, phone tucked close, lashes resting on her cheeks. The image makes me ache to be there.
“DK?” Sleep tugs at her voice.
“Hmm?”
“Can we stay like this?”
A languid warmth pulses behind my ribs. “Yeah.”
Her breathing evens out. Soft, slow, and steady in my ear. Without thinking, I match mine to hers.
