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)
His rough exhale made sound travel straight from that wound into my hand. “I play baseball. I got other scars. Should I hop outta these basketball shorts?”
“You shouldn’t hop at all. However, tell me first. I might let you show me … a good time. On a date.” No crossing the line, though. Montana, I’ll have to leave again …
“Washington stabbed me. Now, where you wanna go, Zuri?”
Wash wouldn’t? I chuckled, still stuck on stupid, waiting for dumb to come.
He blinked.
“Wash … your brother … your law-abiding citizen, now Honorable Judge of a brother stabbed you?”
“He was five. We were badass kids. Chère, you don’t date me … I’ma die.”
“No!” Because it will get real, and Edwin might find us! “If you die, I’m sure your alter ego has enough juice to resuscitate your arrogant behind.”
“You gotta be tired of cooking?” His deep rasp stung and tantalized at the same time.
I jumped back as if burned. He was wearing me down. To play it off, my hand went to my hip. “Except for a new-location dinner every time Darius and I ran, I have cooked. Mind you, that’s a handful of times in four years. So between HC&PP and Chuck E. Cheese, I met my quota for dinners out.” I opened up bit by bit. “Besides, you’re paying me for the bandaging because you’re too spoiled to stay at a hospital. I don’t need the fake-date money.”
Screw a fake date, I craved a meaningful connection with him.
My heart desired … more than Big Country would offer.
Montana brought me between his thighs. “Sweet Cheeks.” His fingers ran through my locs, sliding lower, his tone too. “Why …” His lips found the hollowed pulse at my throat. “You …” More kisses mopped over my skin. “Keep …” His warm lips tingled their way lower along my chest, nipping the swell of my breast.
“Ahem …” a voice cleared.
I stepped back so fast that if I wore heels, I’d be splinting my own broken ankle. Spinning around, I caught sight of Virginia. My hand flew to my chest as if to wipe away the trail of furious desire. “Oh, good morning.” A jungle fire lit up my cheeks. “Did you sleep well? How did …”
It’s not how it looks.
Except it resembled a Hallmark movie with less clothing.
“I slept well,” she said simply.
Ugh, Miss Virginia, please don’t hate me like Montana’s … er, not ex. I didn’t get what Montana and Adele had going. Okay, fine—I understood. Miss Thang’s confidence allowed her to fulfill his needs without a title. But his mom wasn’t about to picture me at the same nudist colony. Or was it a mosquito blood drive? Couldn’t remember the joke, but the point was clear: I was not empowered like Adele.
Still … I was here. Playing house—wait. Where had Montana’s momma been? I asked, “Is it busy at work? Have you enjoyed the dinners I left out for you?” Please don’t ask me why I didn’t call and just ask.
“You made me plates, sugar?” Virginia stopped touching a bamboo earring. “What plates?”
I hurried to the microwave drawer. I couldn’t understand why rich folks would stoop—
Oh, it made sense.
Some rich, old person, hunched over like Quasimodo, had invented this thing. Boom. A drawer for grandparents who were tired of standing on tippy-toes to reheat coffee.
That settled things. I peered into the empty drawer. “It’s always gone in the morning.” My eyes snapped to Montana. “You’re eating your momma’s dinner?”
His brows lifted. “Momma’s? Nah, bébé. Thought you catered to my high-protein diet. Wasn’t that my second dinner?”
My arms folded. “It was not.”
He held his hands up. “Forgive me.”
“For this or for temp—?” I bit my lip rather than say temptation with his momma around. Dragging in a breath, I focused on the resilient woman who birthed this. “I’m sorry, Miss Virginia. I figured you were still at HC&PP and wouldn’t be home for dinner, since I didn’t come in …” Wait? Something reeked. Did she even live here? “I assumed you returned late all week.”
“Non.”
Okay. She hadn’t caught what I’d thrown. “Came home late. Here. You live here?”
Virginia burst into laughter. “Lawd have mercy. Child, walk with me.”
I did, embarrassment a clingy static against my skin.
Under her breath, Virginia muttered about a switch.
“Momma?” Montana called, still posted up on the marble island. “Whatchu say about a switch?”
“Don’t worry, mô garçon.” She softened her voice on the term of affection—my son—while we strolled toward the sweeping foyer. At the front door, framed with wrought iron and a glass wall, she slipped an arm around me. “See that there stable?”
“Yes,” I murmured, cheeks still hot.
“On the opposite side sits a little bitty cottage.” She smirked. “When Montana built this place, I laughed and told him, Non, chère. I stayed in NOLA.”
“Oh?”
“He had good intentions. Before he was born, my grandfather worked out here. Course it was a ranch. Bigger than heaven itself when I was little. They treated him like you-know-what. He loved them thoroughbreds. When the old owners’ bébés needed cash, Montana bought the land. Built this. Too lavish, I told him.”