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)
Montana pulled his arm away. A relentless sigh heaved from his sultry lips, then the world returned. We’d been flirting inches away from my son.
After a beat, he replied, “Funny. I let you walk me into that, Journey.”
Before I could pat myself on the back, Darius dropped a crayon onto the coloring page. “My momma don’t wanna walk with you. She said you have large hands.”
I snorted into my lemonade, choking. My baby didn’t get what walking into meant.
Montana pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Lil’ Dude, why you gotta treat me like that. I taught you to catch.”
Darius muttered about his new toys at home, then returned to his coloring book.
I laughed again, wiping another stray tear. “See? Even my baby knows I shouldn’t sign up for your mess.”
“It’s not … mess. You just closed off.” The faintest twitch of a muscle worked right above that beard my fingers wanted to drag down. Ugh. The only feelings he had forced blood to flow away from his brain. But me? I cared.
My tone softened. “Okay. You can sorta guess my background, which means I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath. Respect. Confidentiality.” Be vulnerable with me. I shrugged, as if my demeanor spoke to a weight greater than the fear of letting another man in. My voice betrayed me, with a shallow crack. “S-See? I’m open.”
“You, open?” Montana’s eyes locked on mine. Heat in them. Enough heat to melt chocolate. My gaze needed to tear away, but his mouth curved into a grin—framed by that beard. “Haven’t seen you open, Journey.”
Lord, help me. Montana made me forget all about the jambalaya on my plate. I pressed his bicep. Steel beneath my palm, pure steel and fire. “Move, Montana. My break is over.”
The other night, I gave myself third-degree burns playing with fire. Now I was avoiding that six-foot-four inferno like potato salad after someone’s boogie auntie snuck in raisins and diced pickles.
It had been this thing we do. He was borderline witty; I was borderline a pilot without a license. No flight manifest. No clearance. No clue how to land from the high of him.
A knock pulled me out of my musings. Uh, Zuri. You’re thinking of him again.
I rolled over in bed after an afternoon nap and wondered if he’d saved his endorsement deal. He’d flown to LA yesterday after begging me to go too.
Still thinking of him, girl.
I rubbed my face and wandered around my dark, tiny apartment.
Another knock rattled the door. I winced at the bright peephole glow and cracked it open.
“Thought you offered to watch Darius.” I gave Shanice the full up-and-down. Although implied, I decided not to add “for free.” I’d worked six days straight. She had also watched Darius for pay during my shifts. She and her seventy-three-year-old grandma, who swore she was thirty-seven. They double-teamed him and her daughter while Shanice got her degree online in medical billing. I gave her a once-over. Her sequined dress screamed Friday night. “You look cute.”
Shanice wriggled her ombré eyebrows. “We ‘bout to pass a good time. Ring in the New Year like the Saints gone win the next Super Bowl!”
“When we are included in a sentence, there’s an expectation—”
“Ugh, don’t get white girl on me.”
I palmed my forehead. Lawd. Montana had tried me with the Isley Brothers reference. Growing up foster didn’t mean I wasn’t Black. It made me more colorful than Skittles and Starburst put together. Strengthened me, too, when I spoke up during residency to get noticed.
And you did. Now you’re on the run with the adorable by-product of said residency.
“Free dinner!” she sang.
Mm-hmm. The melody gave scammer energy.
Hours later, she’d buttered me up and shoved me into a strapless dress I prayed I didn’t sneeze in. Now, I walked toward a neon sign for a … bar.
And not just any bar.
A spot in Marigny, with black-polished brick walls and bright-pink, ornate wrought-iron decor. A sign near the door promoted their private events.
What kind?
Speed dating—?
Girl, is your mind on Montana?
No, I told myself. Yes, I had a split personality within the walls of my mind. If I kept busy, my little turncoat brain couldn’t—
Oh, no. It did.
I blinked away the image of Montana’s attractive face and continued to read the poster. Oh, seminars. They hosted 401(k) seminars.
Hands on my shoulders, Shanice wheeled me inside as if she’d strapped me to a standing wheelchair at a psych hospital. “We ain’t here for that, Inspector Journey.”
“I’m leaving at the stroke of midnight.”
“Okay, I get it. You’ll turn into a pumpkin.”
“No. New Year is a tradition for me and my pumpkin.” I missed my baby.
She dragged me across hardwood floors to a shiny leather booth, blessed with shea butter. Ugh. The disturbingly spotless bar didn’t overstimulate my anxiety and keep my mind from … trouble.
Montana’s brother. The son Virginia prayed would get a job stood at the bar. Next to him, grinning like he’d barred the windows to prevent my escape, was the man himself. Big Country.