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)
Shaking my head, I approached the white cedar dresser with more storage than we had clothing and took my backpack from a drawer.
I forked a hand through my locs. New York threw chaos into my method. Well, I should call my buddy. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the contacts. Woah. Most of them Babineauxs. I stopped on the contact. One letter: C.
But I wasn’t ready to relinquish this heaven. This … Journey.
Chose this name in hopelessness too. I’d laughed at my life that day. I smiled, then stepped into the en suite bathroom to brush my teeth and shower.
Virginia gave me the day off. Today, I was supposed to rest. But Montana waited in the living room.
A wall-sized trifold glass door stood open. Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching the glow of his flawless skin. My pulse jumped when my eyes landed on his body and dragged over washboard abs. Muscles glistened in the sunlight.
He wore basketball shorts. Those dang shorts rode low on his inguinal ligaments, where the abdominal muscles—rectus abdominis and obliques—met his transversus abdominis. A Montana trifecta of temptation. Every line, every shadow, every muscle screamed danger and desire at the same time. In normal female lingo, we called it the V-cut. The V-line. The V-muscle. The V-happy. A perfect angle to make you forget your own name, sanity, even your profession.
“Put on a shirt,” I hissed.
A slow smile played on his lips. “You’re a doctor.”
“How do you …?” I clamped my mouth shut.
“Can’t see you in colorful scrubs. And you said doctor last night.”
Dang, that was true! “So, you’re telling me”—I paused, since gulping was apparently a requirement around temptation—“ahem, you’re calling me boring?”
“Never that. But yep. A doctor. You just confirmed it.” He winked.
I glanced away. Another gulp.
Montana went to a massive kitchen island with multiple sinks. He pushed himself onto the marble waterfall with his hands and sat down. “How do I look, Dr. Sweet Cheeks?”
I poked him.
Was I proud of it?
Yes, I was.
“Ahh,” Montana hollered.
“Relax, it’s four inches from your bandage. And I’ve sacrificed too many years of education to be called Doctor—”
“Which college, Doctor Swee—? JOURNEY!” Another holler, this time more growly.
“University of … Somewhere, North America.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me in front of him. With Montana on the island, we were closer to eye to eye. My pulse thudded, hollow in my throat, as my eyes dropped to those lips that had moved like magic over mine last night.
You are in so much trouble, Zuri. Yes, I had taken up talking to myself in third person, so I didn’t forget my name. My personal conversations never hit so hard.
So.
Much.
Trouble.
A white row of teeth bit that bottom lip I wanted all over me right now. Montana shook his head. “Can I at least know your name?”
Panic washed over me. I hadn’t said my name aloud in years.
He deserves to know, girl!
I cleared my throat. “Zuri.”
“Zuri.” He smiled. Those lips again, that trifecta below. I backed away. He took my wrist again, thumb playing provocatively slow over my pulse. “You don’t need the wig here, Zuri.”
Yup, I did. And a parka jacket. Snow boots. Or a chastity belt. Yeah, just a chastity belt. After last night, the thought of succumbing to temptation even once terrified me. I flicked a few strands of Diana from my face. “Can I assess your bandage, Montana?”
“Please do.” He stopped caressing my wrist.
“Got gloves?”
“Washington dropped by with some stuff. Only checked it for my meds. Good stuff.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Oh, I must’ve slept like a baby. Where’s the stuff he brought?”
“Glad you got your rest on that angel-threaded lullaby bed.” Montana chuckled. “You bougie now, bébé?”
“Maybe.” I retrieved a hospital bag from a chair. I then washed my hands at the copper sink closest to me before stepping behind him again.
My clean fingers swept over the bandage. Damp. Not soaked. “You’re not bleeding like crazy.”
“Like crazy? That official medical lingo, Doctor Sweet Cheeks?”
I snorted. “You know, when I get technical with you, you talk crap. When I get down to your level—”
“Down? Damn. Who’s cocky?”
Aweek later, we’d struck up a routine while I friend-zoned Montana, in the temptingly close proximity of nurturing him back to health. Montana had refused to let me go home to pack another bag. Probably payback for denying him sponge baths. Instead of saying he worried I might not return, he’d had new clothes delivered for Darius and me. More toys and illustrated books for my baby.
We met each morning at the kitchen island after I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on cuter loungewear. I know, I know. It might’ve looked like I wanted this. Granted, my son didn’t wake up until an hour later. But I’d gotten Montana stabbed. He deserved a cute visual, while I didn’t cross that line.