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)
My body went rogue before my brain realized. Toes on the rise. Tongue darting across my lips to give it a glossy effect. My eyes hooded, lashes batting.
His hand splayed on my lower back. The sigh that slipped through my lips made me feel taller. Bridged the gap. He was so close. Nodding his head, he added, “You also one, out of many,”—he chuckled, then finished in a cocky, Creole drawl—“many women who ever tried to strip me naked without knowing my name.”
My bottom lip pudged—leaving less than a breath between our lips. My toes ached. I didn’t care. “Mm-hmm. Didn’t get you naked. Conceited much.” My wide smile cut through the ache of waiting for him to kiss me.
But I wasn’t in a position to complain. I was, however, in the position to have him speaking Creole. Once. He. Kissed. Me.
My eyes closed. Committed.
Cue the fireworks.
Cue the violins.
Cue Etta James’s “At Last.”
And then …
“Who your people, Zuri? Why you live with a college friend and his woman?”
My eyes snapped open so fast I swear I sprained an eyeball, eyebrow, and the left half of my face. “Montana?”
“Okay. Never mind. Gimme the name of Darius’s father.” His brows rose. “Didn’t expect that yet. But I expected something! You told my business. I can’t be in yours?”
My jaw worked, and my hand fell onto my hip. “Excuse me, sir? Do you see me?” Somewhere inside, my brain’s alarm flashed an SOS. Throw the rescue tube. A life jacket. Pull this five-year celibate woman out of a three-foot pool before she chokes and dies. But outside, I was livid. “My toes hurt. I’m out here looking like a fool standing in front of you—Montana Babineaux, alternate alias Big Country—and you wanna take me on a super old episode of Maury Povich.”
“You something else.” He backed up and jutted his chin to the door. “Get in the house, woman.”
“Good night, Montana.” I strolled up the porch. As my fist rose to knock, the door opened.
A searing heat burned my eyes, clouding Virginia and the blur running toward me.
Darius launched himself into my arms.
“Tried to hold him off …” she said.
Thank you, I mouthed, pretending to struggle to stand while embracing my son. I fell to my knees with a groan that pulled something out of me. I’d blindsided Montana after the meeting. He’d returned the favor. “You’ve gotten so big.”
“Yes, Mommy. I’m big and strong.”
“Exactly.” I patted the top of his head and stood up to hug Virginia.
Tears spilled before I could stop them. “I’m sorry.”
With a look, she dissolved pretenses and got to my core. “You’ll be okay.” She soothed my back, even though she seemed puzzled by my tears.
Dang. Montana hadn’t revealed my actions.
“I-I left my bag on the porch.” I hawked a thumb, then meandered through the doors to grab it.
“Dinner is in the microwave.” She burst into laughter. “Padon. Every time I pop something into it, I imagine Montana stealing my dinners. Them boys. They eat you out of house and home and still want more!”
“Hah … hehehe.” Oh … why did I bother? But I’d mastered the art of smiling at people who fell back onto eggplant-shaped objects—common complaint in the ER. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll do breakfast tomorrow.”
She told me to get settled, then meandered out of the cozy living room. I glanced at the time. Seven p.m. Above the clock on the wall was an image of Jesus; a dearly departed president, and another more, current … not too current … president. And a framed picture of her grandson.
Elijah had Washington’s eyes.
My bottom lip wobbled while Darius jumped at my side, talking nonstop about his new cousins.
Although she offered me another room—same as Montana had, ulterior motives sparkling in his eyes—I’d placed everything in one guest room.
Darius jumped onto the bed, the feathery rose duvet puffing around him.
“Tell me about your fun weekend?” I focused on him as I went to eat dinner.
Later, I imagined how Montana pressed the reset button on our situation-ship. Months ago, I ghosted through life. No desire to be known. Loved.
Now, I wanted more. I punched my fluffy pillow. Forget it. The accusations weren’t the problem. I was. I reached for my phone in the dimly lit room. Grabbed it from the nightstand, turned onto my side, facing the window, so the LED light didn’t disturb Darius, and searched Montana Babineaux.
The internet exploded with information. I settled on a video where fans created a reel of his greatest moments.
“Whoa.” On screen, he smacked a ball so hard I expected the wood to splinter.
He cracked a homer. The video creator turned the bat into a mic for a dramatic finish.
“Skills.” Big Country and the YouTuber had them.
I fanned myself, glancing at the next photo of his skin glistening while he slid into home. Slow motion caught everything. The dirt streaks on his crisp white Dodger uniform. The bulge of muscles in his thighs. His slick sleeve tattoos.