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)
The plan was simple: get Zuri out of my system in thirty days. Detox. Move on. Thirty days was ample time for any woman to fall for Big Country. Needed to confirm I still had it like that.
But when we hit passport control in France, I wasn’t sure what I feared more, her papers not clearing … or the fact that my heart had caught feelings like contraband. My brain said, Relax. My chest said, Too late, bruh. She’s already passed customs and tryna sneak into your heart. Yep. I’d played myself with that contract.
Immigration stamped us through, and Zuri … let out the air she’d been holding. She ran her fingers through that big crown of human hair. I hated this part. The faking. But she still feared some dude whose name I needed to know.
At the hotel, Zuri requested extra pillows before rushing into the suite’s massive bathroom. When she strolled out, the silence got thicker. We’d never forced it and didn’t start now.
Since I’d drawn the line at two suites, we traded rooms. I closed the door to the bathroom while I relieved myself. I took a call, then walked out, wiping my hands on a terry cloth towel, and stumbled upon the Great Wall of China.
“Got enough pillows?” I asked, teeth gritted.
“They had a limit.” Her shoulder lifted. “Ice cream? No fake date in Paris should end without ice cream.”
I almost winced. Fake. Crap, I’d done this to myself. Her guard was higher than these pillows the past few days. I missed her. And I knew if I apologized for being an ass this week, she’d apologize for preaching to the Dodgers’ execs.
But Big Country wasn’t helping. Dude didn’t believe in apologies. And me? I hadn’t offered one in years. So, the quick “my bad” came out as “we gotta fake date again.” Yeah, my brand sales slipped a small percentage after the season wrapped. Logical. Some fans pushed on to basketball and football. But I wanted her around. Always. I was catching the type of feelings not even my alter ego could clown me out of.
“The French call it crème glacée.”
We took pictures along the way to Berthillon. All of them? Mine. For the fans? Just one. Damned if I’d be parting with all the images of us cluttering my phone.
Zuri across from the Eiffel Tower, hands capturing the sun.
Her on the Pont Neuf, caught mid-laugh.
A straight shot showed most of her face, and I promised her that photo would never hit social media. Please. Her face was too gorgeous to share. Then the two of us clowning at bookstalls along the Seine. She hated romance, so I made up stories from the inside of book jackets of dusty old French romance novels.
Even the accidental shots? I’ma hoard them. Her rolling her eyes when I tried on a beret at a tourist stand. Her cheeks puffed with the large macaron I placed in her mouth when she wanted to take a cute bite.
We did a Live though. I let the world have that. Zuri sat on a railing near the Île de la Cité. With her cheek pressed against my chest, I rambled about baseball and Paris. My followers ate it up. She asked to see what caption I posted after, leaning close and curious.
I tapped a caption in quick and closed the phone before she caught it.
She smirked. “What did you write? Big Country and his mystery woman take on Paris?”
“Yep. His.” Standing in front of her, as she sat on the railing, I gripped her thighs, massaging. “You said put respect on your name, Doctor Sweet Cheeks. Today, I gotta put some respect on who you belong to. Even if it’s for a month.” Is it for a month, bébé?
Later, the fading sun touched Zuri’s golden skin, and the possessiveness in me wanted to leap out. She sat on a stone bench. The river stretched beyond. I swore she was the only landmark worth remembering. The gilded dome of les Invalides caught the light in the distance, barges drifting by. None of it compared to the way her lashes brushed her cheeks as she sighed, spooning ice cream.
My chest tightened again. Had to know her. My own Berthillon ice cream melted in the cup in my hand. Done faking it for fans, I asked, “Tell me. You got big friends somewhere?”
“What?”
I bent to press a kiss on her bare shoulder. Her skin trembled beneath my lips. Damn straight I looked for every chance to touch her. Camera, no camera. “Your passport.” I pressed. “Curtis got it like that.”
“Do we need to have this conversation, Montana?” Zuri stabbed her spoon into the smooth ice cream.
“You real cryptic for someone who wants money.” Wrong move, bruh.
She shoved my chest. “Watch it. I’m not a gold digger.”