I’d nodded, pretending to get it. Truth was, half of it went over my head. “So basically, rich man builds toys?”
He groaned, grabbed the remote like he might pause the whole MCU just to draw me a diagram. “Rayna. It’sapplied physicswith character development.”
“Uh-huh.” I smirked. “Still looks like toys to me.”
He laughed—frustrated, but soft—then kissed me like he couldn’t help it. “I’m going to make you understand one day,” he murmured against my mouth.
The teacher in him wouldn’t quit, and I loved that more than I’d admit out loud. Loved the way he wanted me to get it, wanted me inside his world even if I was stubborn about staying clueless.
That was the problem. I liked him—more than liked him. Enough that the thought of meeting his grandmother, the one he kept bringing up, didn’t scare me off the way it should’ve. The idea of Sunday dinners and cobbler, of sitting at that table because he wanted me there, made my chest ache in ways I hadn’t felt since before Vontrell broke me open at seventeen.
I wasn’t built for this soft stuff. Not anymore. Lovers were supposed to be simple—something to burn with, not build with. Most of the men I’d let close, I couldn’t even tell you their jobs, and I never cared enough to ask. But Quentin? He kept making me care.
He made me hungry for things I swore off—laughter that lingered, lessons I still thought about thenext day, a hand on my back in front of a whole room that said without words:this one is mine.
That mix—want and fear—was still humming in my chest when I hung my vest on the truck hook, slid into my car, and drove. Not home. Not anywhere I’d planned. Just… toward him.
Which is how I ended up in the school parking lot—doing something I’d never done in my life: showing up at a man’s job.
And of course, that’s when I saw her.
He stood by his car with a woman I’d clocked weeks ago at The Loupe—the fundraiser night. Wrap dress, cheekbones, a smile dazzling enough to sign checks. She hadn’t come over. Didn’t have to. I’d seen the way she watched him then—cool, confident, already measuring the angles and liking the math.
Now this bitch was here in daylight, looking like a problem disguised as a colleague—pencil skirt, tucked blouse, heels that lengthened her curvy legs.
Nia—the history teacher that would be brought up with a host of other names he mentioned when he discussed his day. When he said her name, his voice was flat as the weather. My body didn’t hear weather now. My stomach knotted, ugly and honest.
Warning, Rae.The thought hit like a breaker about to trip. No proof. No evidence. Just old ghost of emotions dragging behind suspicions.
I saw Vontrell Hill for a split second—the boy with cornrows and promises slick as his smile. And under that, my mother—her face in her hands at the kitchen table. Not because Daddy cheated. Because life had let her down again,dreams stolen or bruised. Tears shining in the dim kitchen light, her back to me. The sound of it etched into my soul.
Disappointment had a look. A sound. And in this lot, watching Nia lean in while Quentin leaned back, every nerve in me screamed not to be that girl. Not again.
I gripped the wheel until my palms went slick. He kept distance—half a step, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t want to give her his wrists. But she leaned anyway. And he gave her that small, careful smile one used when they didn’t want to feed a rumor.
Then he saw me.
His whole face changed. Split into a grin so wide it rattled my chest, then clipped just enough to admit he’d already run the calculation. Not guilt. Awareness.I know what you’re seeing. I know what I’m doing. Don’t burn us down over it.
My pulse slowed but didn’t settle. I opened the door anyway, boots hitting asphalt, hoodie zipped, safety glasses still perched on my head.
“Rayna,” he said, careful. Even careful, my name in his mouth sent a current through me.
Nia turned, scanned me from hair to boots. Her smile said:I’m not your enemy. But if you blink, I’ll take your spot. “Try bitch”, is what I wanted to tell her but I held my tongue.
“This is Nia Coleman,” Quentin said, clearing his throat like he was reminding kids to to behave. “She teaches history.”
“Hi,” she said. A hand came out, palm soft, nails rounded glossy pink. I took it briefly and let it go just as quickly to relay a message.I’m politebut not phony.
“Rayna Whitaker. Electrician. I keep the lights on.”
She laughed a beat too high, then recovered. “Love that for you.”
Quentin’s eyes slid to mine likeplease don’t biteand I felt petty for wanting to.
“We were just talking about the mentorship program,” Nia went on. “Trying to wrangle Mr. Hale into giving the kids some time.”
“He’s good at time,” I said. “Counts it. Keeps it steady and he’s very good with keeping it steady.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but I felt him anyway—the way his breath changed, the way he went still when he knew I was telling on him and loving him at the same time.
