Page 13 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Dom

I see her at work. That’s the only guarantee I have when it comes to Luna these days.

Since Gabe’s pool party, which was nearly a month ago, the temperature in Savannah has been rising rapidly, but her attitude toward me is frosty. It’s not downright hostile, so that’s a saving grace.

I watch as she stands in the middle of the future atrium of the hospital at the job site, talking to two engineers from the mechanical team, gesturing toward the big white board that has the blueprints clipped to it.

She’s in a hard hat, steeled-toed boots, a tablet in hand—and she looks like an architectural goddess.

If anyone could read my thoughts they’d know I’m a puppy when it comes to this woman, wagging my tail while waiting for scraps, and looking at her like she’s my everything, which she is.

“This air return can’t happen here.” She points to the area in discussion on the blueprint. “It’s interrupting the natural airflow between Zones A and C. And if we force it, we’re going to get dead zones and temperature inconsistencies in the south wing.”

The younger engineer blinks at her like she just explained quantum physics, but the other, the more experienced one, nods. “I’ll make a note. We can reroute through the vertical stack if you’re okay giving up a foot and a half of ceiling clearance?”

“I can live with that. It’s a pediatric wing, not a cathedral.” She flashes the engineer the kind of half-smile that makes my heart feel like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

She’s fucking brilliant. Focused. So far ahead of me professionally in some ways, inspiring me to learn and be better.

According to Mama, folks ought to be with the kind of people who make them more.

“The sum of the parts, Dominic,” she’ll say, with that look that means you better be listening, “ought to be greater than the parts on their own. Your partner—friend, wife, girlfriend, don’t matter which—should lift you up, not drag you down. And that goes both ways, son.”

She also says not to chase what I want with pride but with humility. That’s easy to do with Luna. Being with her is humbling. Seeing her in action is awe-inspiring.

What’s that song by Van Morrison? ‘ Have I Told You Lately That I Love You ’?

Yeah, that one. Makes sense now .

So, I hang back and let Luna run the site like the boss she is.

“What do you think, Dom?” she calls out to me. “You always have an opinion.”

I walk to the blueprint. “I agree with all your suggestions.”

She eyes me carefully as if determining if I’m fucking with her. Then, as if deciding that I’m being genuine, she goes back to the engineers.

We’re not ready to start the work, not until we have crossed all the Ts and dotted every I. In a project like this, if you start before you’ve done the prep work, the mistakes are insurmountably expensive.

Luna and I walk to the temporary office and meeting room, which is actually just a converted trailer serving as a workspace.

It smells like coffee, dry-erase markers, and sawdust.

The conference table is cluttered with samples—tile, fabric, wood grains—and on the corner, there’s a stack of blueprints rolled tight like ancient scrolls.

There’s a large screen on a rolling stand positioned in front of the conference table, connected to a computer running AutoCAD.

It enables us to display and interact with live architectural drawings, make real-time adjustments, and guide the team through design updates without any loss in software-to-print translation.

We’re reviewing structural adjustments with the build team when Camy arrives.

She stands out. We’re all in easy work gear, jeans, boots, T-shirts. It’s fucking hot and the AC doesn’t always work properly in the trailer. Camy is dressed in cream trousers, a silk blouse, and heels that won’t survive a construction site.

This is on me—why she keeps showing up.

I haven’t exactly led Camy on, but I haven’t drawn a clear enough line, either. She knows what this is. She’s not looking for love, just a good time, and I’ve let that slide without pushing back.

But let’s not kid ourselves—Camy would never bring someone like me home. Wrong pedigree, wrong skin tone, no matter how many awards I’ve stacked on my shelf. To her, I’m entertainment.

Camy is the kind of woman who likes to display her trophies, but no more than that.

Still, my attempt at making Luna jealous is now a millstone around my neck.

“Dom,” Camy says brightly and then pouts, “you didn’t text me back.”

I look up from the elevations I’m marking and struggle to keep my tone polite. “Been busy, Camy.”

Her eyes narrow as she realizes Luna’s sitting two chairs down from me, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back. Luna ignores Camy and continues to make notes on her tablet. Camy could be part of the HVAC for all Luna seems to care.

Luna never had patience for the society types; hence, she was and continues to be friends with Stella, though the girl we grew up with is not the Stella we see today; she’s tougher, more confident.

Part of it is having Noah in her life, and the other is kicking her father completely out of it.

For all the struggles Noah and Stella had when they got together, they’re a unit now, close and tight.

Camy moves closer to me. “We should catch up.”

“Hmm.”

“Dom.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off as politely as I can.

“We’re in a meeting.” I pick up my coffee up and jerk my chin toward Luna and the two engineers, as well as a project manager from Carter Construction.

Camy gives Luna a smile that could cut glass. “I’m sure you can take a break. Luna, honey, you don’t mind if I borrow him for a moment, do you?”

I take a sip of my coffee.

“By all means.” Luna doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “Just bring him back unmodified. I’ve got him running pretty well these days.”

I nearly spit my coffee.

Camy blinks like she just got slapped with a silk glove.

“Camy, we really need to get some things finalized today. How about we meet for a drink later?” I suggest that in an effort to avoid Camy going off half-cocked and getting kicked around the trailer by Luna.

“Uncle Tommy says he’d like to speak with you… alone . Maybe he can join us for drinks.” Camy’s not as subtle as she thinks. She’s threatening me with her uncle, and she’s dissing Luna.

“Let us know when and where,” I say casually. “Luna will have to check her calendar as well.”

I can feel Luna’s eyes on me. She expects me to play along, to go it alone—like so many others do. Take the meeting with the big boss, shake the right hands, wear the practiced smile. That’s the game. That’s how you get ahead.

I’ve seen it too many times not to understand the drill, but that’s never been how I operate.

And even if it weren’t Luna being pushed aside, I still wouldn’t play it that way. I don’t believe in success that comes at the cost of someone else’s voice.

Tommy has already indicated that he prefers working with me over Luna, because he finds her difficult. Not surprising at all.

The moment a woman like Luna—brilliant, direct, unwilling to shrink herself—gets too visible, too powerful, suddenly she’s labeled difficult . Aggressive. Emotional. Replaceable.

The woman may carry twice the load, but she’ll only get half the credit, and even then, people will ask who helped her.

And lately, DEI—the thing that was supposed to open the door for people like us—has become a dirty word. Something whispered, eye-rolled, quietly gutted in back rooms and boardrooms. Diversity is now an inconvenience. Equity is optional. Inclusion is a risk.

And women like Luna who work in a man’s world are the first to feel it.

I know what it’s like to walk into a room and wonder if you were chosen for optics instead of merit. To be seen as decorative instead of definitive. I’ve worn that suit. Heard the quiet snubs. Smiled through the veiled insults and the invisible ceilings.

Camy can’t read a room, that’s obvious because she obliviously continues, “Uncle Tommy said?—”

I cut Camy off, “If Tommy wants to talk about this project, I need Luna with me. She knows more about what’s going on than I do, and she’s the one who has the answers your uncle may want.”

Camy clenches her jaw, and a flicker of impatience crosses her face. “But?—”

“Just ask Tommy’s assistant to let Nova or Rachel at Savannah Lace know, and we’ll confirm,” I speak over her, letting her know that work appointments go through the proper channels, via the project manager at Savannah Lace.

This is their project. I’m just a consultant on it to support Luna, not manage her, regardless of what Tommy thinks.

Luna is not my second.

She’s my partner.

“Fine,” Camy snaps and walks out, her heels clicking out of the trailer like gunfire.

Luna glances at me. “I don’t need to be there if Tommy wants?—”

“We go together or not at all.”

She gazes at me as if trying to read between the lines of what I said.

“Okay,” she whispers softly and then clears her throat. “Let’s go through this mechanical plan again because I still think we have an airflow disconnect between Zones B and D. ”

We work through it together. A team.

It’s fun. It’s energetic. The discussions are engaging, positive, and constructive.

God, but I love working with Luna! So, fucking much.

I wish we could partner on more projects in the future.

I wish we could grow together professionally.

I wish….

“This is frustrating.” Luna pushes her tablet away and stands.

She stretches with her hands above her head. Her t-shirt is tight against her breasts.

I see the younger engineer’s eyes bug out.

I growl softly, and he quickly looks away.

Yeah, putz, eyes away from my woman.

She steps out of the trailer to make a phone call, and I continue to work on the problem.

Many architects would ask junior types to work on the airflow issue, but not Luna.

It’s a small detail, but it could affect comfort, energy efficiency, and even long-term performance, so she’s not going to budge until this is fixed.

I take the work home with me, and since it’s for her, I spend half the night working on it. I cross-reference schematics, run simulations, and even call a colleague from New York who used to lead mechanical systems for me.

By three a.m., I think I’ve cracked it.

The ductwork is rerouted, the airflow is streamlined, and the system's integrity is preserved without sacrificing ceiling height or patient comfort.

It’s subtle. Clean. Smart.

It’s her style.

I don’t add my name. Don’t leave a note. Just upload the revised sheet into the shared folder under the project’s next-phase submissions.

When she sees it, she’ll know. But not because I’ll tell her.

It’s a gift.

And like all the best ones, it asks for nothing in return.

No credit.

No strings.

Just quiet care—left behind like a breadcrumb on the path that leads us back to each other.