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 hand, as if I were hovering over a pot of boiling crawfish, hung over the mattress. Hell, I knew it was wet enough to sprout green beans and tomatoes.
“Bad dreams again, mon chère?” Virginia leaned against the door, her eyes reflecting a wealth of personal history.
“I’m so sorry …” I muttered.
Her hand fell to her hip. “What was the dream about?”
Although reluctant, I brought Virginia up to speed on the worst decisions of my life while she cooked breakfast. French toast from scratch. She wouldn’t allow me to lift a spoon, so I showered. By the time I returned, she’d washed the mixing bowls, had already made my plate, and was whisking homemade whipped cream. Her first husband? Dumb. Yeah, real dumb. Ezekiel could be three hundred pounds, jolly, and eating every meal while doing the jig. But then again, she wouldn’t have married Tex and Ten’s father.
Montana strolled into the kitchen, a mug from his house in hand, since Mr. Bougie-No himself only drank his coffee. Virginia drank bitter chicory. I took the mug from his hand before he could bring it up to his mouth and drank. “Ugh, Montana! You have the good syrups and creams. This is what you bring?”
“Then bring me coffee in bed, chère. Put all the sugar you want in yours.” He sat next to me, patting my thigh as if he were smooth while his momma gave us the side-eye. How did Virginia birth this heathen?
“Speaking of beds,” Miss Virginia began.
I cleared my throat, conducting the New Orleans Philharmonics. Lawd, I know she didn’t!
She stopped herself, like even she knew it was too soon to go that far. Bringing up women and hormones to a man? Nope. She said, “Neither of us got much sleep last night, mon amour. Maddy’s store still hurts me. That there dahlin’ of yours”—her eyes flicked to me, with a look that said, I see you, but I won’t tell your business—“isn’t doing nothing mannish. Bringing you chicory in bed? Non! But she has bad dreams, Montana.”
“Edwin?” Montana asked, the vein in his forehead practically begging for parole.
“Dreams like this …” Acrid air clogged my throat, and my voice felt small. “They make me run, Montana.”
Virginia’s face softened, sadness hanging off her words like Spanish moss. “Mmm, chère. Ain’t no worse feeling than running in your sleep when your soul needs rest.”
Nodding, Montana pulled me into his lap. “You safe right here. The fastest you ever gonna run is when Auntie Peaches says the buffet line at the family reunion is open. You just gotta beat my momma. My bet is on you.”
Though he laughed, it sounded stiffer than ever. I remembered him not allowing me to go all comedic self-deprecation, but I playfully shoved his chest since he threw a little shade at his momma.
Before Virginia chimed in, Montana tilted my face and kissed me quickly. Just a brush, which caught me off guard, sweeter than powdered sugar on a beignet.
“Uh-uh.” Miss Virginia smacked her lips. “Y’all don’t get carried away. I got eyes.”
“Relax, Momma. This is just a base hit. You can lay some hands after I try to steal home.” He winked at me, and I wilted. He had stolen home, alright. And the second we got past Virginia’s porch swing, he was all hands and lips and … stealing parts of me I wished he’d claim forever.
zuri
. . .
Valentine’s Day
My heart is with her on Valentine’s Day. I’d discovered the message on Montana’s social media while I lounged around as he prepared breakfast.
Today, like every day for the past month, his fans had eaten it up. He’d even mentioned something about a new set of followers. If they were all as thirsty as some comments Google translated for me, hell, I’d slide in his DMs and threaten that money-making arm, his muscular thighs. And … yeah. All. Of. His. Sexy. Body. Parts.
We’d had a laid-back day because I told him I didn’t need a piece of jewelry, just him.
So, Darius gave me jewelry during an afternoon picnic—and of course, they had Big Country’s name written all over them. Golden chandelier earrings, a matching necklace, and now Montana was at the door to my bedroom with a bracelet between his fingers. Sure, it appeared dainty in his hand, but—
“Wait, give me the box,” I said, starting out of the room.
“Most girls want the jewelry, not the box.” Before I could get one toe into the hallway, he looped an arm around me, spun me toward the bed, and shut us inside the room. It happened in a blur, all while he held a large box behind his back.
“Well, now, I don’t understand the Dodgers’ choices. You could pimp slap a toddler, with those quick moves, I’d still have your bat.”
He smiled, appreciative and smug, placing a box, much too large for jewelry, on the dresser.