“Great.” I lean against the brick entranceway. Talking on the phone keeps us grounded in our connection, but it doesn’t compare to this—the real, smell-good, warm-skin version of him.
I let my eyes roam. His suit jacket is gone in surrender to the heat, the shirt sleeves are rolled to his forearms, teasing me with the ink on his skin. Beads of sweat glisten at his temples.
The urge to touch him is so visceral, I ache.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me—hot, focused, entirely aware—the reaction is mutual. But we keep it cool and controlled.
“I heard my line at the rec center was substantial this morning,” I say, not ashamed to boast. “Almost double Diablo’s turnout.”
A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. “You’re clearly giving people a reason to show up.”
“This neighborhood will be hit hardest by Diablo’s destruction plans.”
“Rebuilding is not destroying,” he says mildly. “But I don’t discount the pier’s intrinsic value. I know it has been part of people’s lives here—where children play, where tourists visit.”
“Exactly. It protects the shoreline and holds stories.”
“The haunting of a lover lost to the lake,” he says, impressing me that he took the time to look into the lighthouse’s history.
“Then you know it’s more than just some old, worn building, waiting to be replaced.”
“I understand your commitment,” he says. “You should keep standing for what you believe in.”
It’s his quiet way of reminding me that even on opposite sides, he’s still in my corner. That’s what makes the conflict easier to carry.
“I should go,” I tell him when our stare stretches too long. “Anika will be here any minute.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth before lifting back to my eyes. “It’s a long day. Stay hydrated.”
“I will.”
“We’ll talk tonight,” he adds for my ears only. “I have a plan.”
That sends a silent thrill through me. To anyone watching, we probably look like two political opponents exchanging polite conversation. But the flush all over my body and the erratic beat of my pulse say exactly what we are.
I let him see the excitement in my grin before I straighten away from the wall. But the second my weight shifts, rubbing the swollen skin against the back of my shoes, I stifle a wince.
DK notices anyway. His hand moves like he’s about to steady me, stopping just short of my waist before he catches himself. “You’re limping.”
“It’s nothing.” I offer a dismissive wave. “Just a minor disagreement with my shoes.”
“Looks like more than minor.” His brow furrows. “Let me see.”
“In the middle of 15th Street?” I murmur, glancing toward the café window. “I’m fine. It’s just a blister.”
“Rayne—”
“Go handle your campaign, Dakarai. That needs more attention than my heels.”
He doesn’t look amused or convinced. He looks like a man who wants to pick me up and carry me to comfort. It’s an image I don’t mind at all, but I do my best to fake a steady gait as I walk into the café. The only thing distracting me from the stabbing pain is having those few sacred minutes with him—and the thought of whatever carefully arranged plan he has waiting for us.
I stop to chat with some of the patrons, because every chance I get to engage with voters is an opportunity to learn and gain their trust. When I’ve shaken the last hand, I find a table and drop into the chair, kicking off my flats under it. The relief is almost orgasmic. Fortunately, Joe’s Pharmacy is right around the corner because stuffing my shoes with toilet paper is not aviable option for the afternoon ahead. I need industrial-strength intervention.
Anika breezes in, looking polished but parched. “That walk nearly took me out, and you’ve been doing this for hours.”
“Suit and shoes were a fail. I’ll know better tomorrow. Think voters would object to me showing up naked?”
“Depends,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Where would you pin your button?”
