The ridiculousness sends us into laughter loud enough to turn heads. I don’t mind that I’m caught being human. We place our orders, and I give her the rundown of my morning. She’s fully locked in until her gaze swerves abruptly toward the door.
“Dakarai Ramos is here.”
Before I can process why he’s back, DK is standing at our table with a white paper bag stampedJoe’s Pharmacy.
“Anika,” he addresses her with a quick, professional nod. “Rayne, I got what they had.”
I immediately catch on. “Thanks for doing me a solid.”
“No problem. Wouldn’t want you injured and claiming a disadvantage when we win.”
“Seems to me, even blistered, I’m running things today.”
“Campaigns are a marathon.” He grins, handing me the bag. Our fingers brush?—
just that small touch, after two days of going cold turkey, hits like a full-body power surge. But aware of Anika watching us closely, I keep my face neutral. “What do I owe you?”
“All good. ”
“Thanks again.”
He gives one short nod, then he’s gone.
“What the hell was that?” Anika leans forward, keeping her voice to a whisper.
“Harmless campaign banter.” I stir the straw in my water. “He saw me limping earlier and saved me a trip to the store.”
She takes the bag, rattling the contents, and peers inside. Her eyebrows shoot so high they nearly disappear into her bangs. “He bought out the whole store,” she says, removing what amounts to an emergency response kit: bandages in multiple sizes, gauze, antiseptic cream, gel heel inserts, blister pads, and a bottle of electrolyte water.
As I look at the spread on the table, emotion wells in my chest, cascading all the way down to my throbbing heels, and drowning the pain in the absurdity of his overkill. If Lot were here, I’d be squealing, but it’s Anika.
“Guess he wasn’t sure what to get,” I say with a shrug.
My response earns me a hard eye roll. “This looks like a man who went to a lot of thought and care.”
That’s undeniable, so I go with something true but understated. “He’s probably a nice guy.”
“Nice doesn’t drop fifty dollars on his opponent’s feet.”
Our sandwiches arrive, saving me from having to respond. As we eat, I redirect the conversation to the afternoon schedule. She lets the DK questions go, though I can feel her suspicions at the table like a third-wheel lunch crasher.
I’ll tell her, just not today. Telling my dad comes first.
At the end of the hour, we part ways. When she’s out of sight, I duck under a store awning to fire off a text to DK.
Me: I’m walking on clouds. Thank you.
His reply comes seconds later.
DK:
Simple. No flash. Just him.
I sway a little on my cushioned feet.
By five, I’m home, showered, and rebandaged. My sundress swings around my calves as I groove to “Run and Tell That” fromHairspray. I pull the coconut loaf from the oven. It’s that perfect golden brown. I season the salmon fillets while the rice cooks and start on the mango-avocado salsa.
My phone rings. I answer on speaker as I chop a jalapeño.
