Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“No. Now, stop.” Her eyes flashed, then she stared at the countdown. She’d snatch her kid and run the second it ran out.
Maybe I came on too strong. Nah, not me. Big Country. Normally, women would skin their knees to get to him. Still, I enjoyed our banter, snapping sharper than Mardi Gras beads clacking together—colorful, chaotic, and damn near addictive.
“I’ll pay you, Sweet Cheeks,” I replied just as the score blared final. Four shots. Instead of tossing her son over her shoulder and skirting off like a fifty-yard dash, Journey stared at me.
Licking my lips, I smiled at those big brown eyes. “Fifty thousand each date.” Since she didn’t respond or run. I swiped the game card, and the machine lit up again. “You got this, Darius.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he rushed to grab the ball rolling over the wooden surface. He leaned forward and took the shot. Nothing but net.
“Keep it up, Little Dude.”
I returned my attention to Journey and shared LaShawn’s half-baked plan.
Journey’s brow lifted. “Why not your girlfriend?”
“Again, Adelle ain’t my girlfriend, bébé. She just somebody who like to have fun when I’m in town. We not tied up like that.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yep. Both allergic to monogamy.”
“Well, I’m allergic to all of the above! Anyway, can’t it be”—she sighed, glancing at her son—“just me and you. No family pack?”
“Tempting. She said a kid would sway my fan base.”
Journey nodded. “Children watch baseball?”
“Yep. Some come with their dads sitting anywhere from the nosebleeds to right behind home plate.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. Since she didn’t flinch, my thumb rubbed circles. Big Country had to hypnotize her one way or another. Any girl? All in. No question. This one? Busting my balls. “This is what we’ll do. You keep wearing that …” parachute “… wig. We’ll use one of my cousins’ kids. Side profile, candids of us. Very ambiguous. Leak a few photos to the press. Mostly you. Me. Hugging … kissing.”
“No kissing.”
“Fifty-K a date and you want to keep that mouth locked?”
“Yes.” A vein in her neck kicked.
I shrugged. We’d circle back. “Maybe a few park photos. The kid can come down the slide, mostly shielded by us.”
“Fifty thousand each date. Cuddles and candids?” she asked, wrenching her pretty fingers together.
“I’ll have my attorney draw up a contract,” I replied, swiping the game card again. The boy grabbed the balls rushing at him.
My eyes ate her in greedy bits. Saw the hesitation. C’mon, bébé.
“Montana …” Journey’s teeth dug into her bottom lip. “What do I do when paparazzi come knocking?”
“Okay. So, listen—”
“Those words. That set up. Keep your money, Montana.” Journey turned away from me and placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Last game, honey.”
Too bad. I was too far gone, and Big Country had already picked his fake leading lady.
zuri
. . .
Iworked extra days after the Christmas rush to pay for a last-minute gift. But what else?
That man tried to tickle my funny bone one afternoon, writing on the blackboard outside the French doors. Today’s special: Fake Dating Big Country—comes with fries. He better be glad I erased the blackboard while bickering with him about “false advertising” before women saw it. They’d devour every drop of his fine behind. Besides, I’d already learned the super long complicated name of the Creole fries: Les Frites Don’t Miss. Overkill.
Two evenings after Christmas, a group of old biddies had a book discussion. Montana had rolled up his sleeves to serve their table so I could have a longer break than usual. Except, he magically looked as natural as a six-four grizzly while carrying sweet teas.
Boy, please. On day one, he took those plates from me with the swagger of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay’s love child. Almost gave him all my tips!
He kept looking at the booth where I drank my Bayou Breeze Lemonade next to Darius. Probably wished I felt sorry enough to date his ass. Fake date that is.
Joke was on him. A granny, in a hearing aid, loudly asked, “So … you still single, Biggg Country?”
I nearly dropped my spoonful of jambalaya. Turned my head away from this mess and scrubbed my fingers through Darius’s twisties, pretending not to be interested.
“Mom!” My son swatted my hand and focused on his coloring books.
Unable to redirect my attention for too long, I looked again. Montana placed plates in front of them. Instead of digging in, they grinned, staring at him like he came with three sides and a biscuit.
One chimed in, palm pressed against his bicep. “Since the Dodgers got rid of you, I’ll take you home tonight, Big Country.”
The chocolate cougars started shouting over each other. “No! My social security check―”
“Uhn! Uhn! I got SSA and survivor’s ben—”
“Ladies, chill!” Montana rushed to put their food down and turned away, cussing under his breath.