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 stylist stood near the wet bar, in silent assessment. She knew my strategy because ain’t no way Zuri would leave this house in that.
She just needed to think that.
“Montana.” Zuri’s sharp voice tugged my gaze away from how the red dress barely restrained her curves. “Can’t I see the other rack?”
The first rack held clothes fit for my cousin’s Barbies. The other? Business casual. She caressed a silk pantsuit as I approached.
“Wear that,”—I hardly let my gaze slide from her eyes to glimpse the power suit—“but your hair stays down.”
My thumb brushed over a loc in my hand. I’d told her the stylist had signed an NDA regarding that parachute on her head, but it took coaxing to get her to remove the wig.
“No, Big. Country.”
Little Mama ripped my name in half. I smiled. “Okay, Journey.”
“Z—” She cleared her throat, weary-eyeing the dark-skinned beauty who held my favorite outfit for Zuri. The NDA didn’t include her real name—Zuri Sweet Cheeks, MD. The little piece of her I had? All mine.
When I leaned close, Zuri’s heartbeat slaughtered my chest. I was calling it. Momma caused issues between us. Whatever they’d said. We’d gotten Zuri comfortable enough to welcome me real close without her heart skyrocketing. I kissed her earlobe and asked, “Which will it be?”
“Give you an inch, you steal an entire island!” Her retort snapped, then her eyes widened as if she was overthinking. “I’m not leaving my wig.”
Still thumbing her locs, I replied, “The power suit or the parachute?”
“Para what?” The cloud of confusion in her brown eyes vanished, and she shoved at my chest. I stood tall. “Parachute! No, you didn’t, Montana.”
“I did. The hair. The pantsuit. Take the whole rack. Tonight, though? I need your … last name.” Damn. That just came to me. She’d undone something in me. I tried to tell myself I was just using her name as collateral. To be honest, she damn near knew everyone I ever loved and hadn’t shared her last name. I wanted to know something about her. “Which is it, Sweet Cheeks? Ain’t gonna budge.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll freeze half to death. The wig can keep me warm.” Zuri smirked, poking my arm as if it were a coat she’d rather burn than wrap around her.
“Last—”
“No last name,” she said, chin tilting stubbornly, which placed her mouth a fraction of an inch away from mine. Damn those eyes. A flicker of realization darkened them. She tried to lower her chin, and I let go of the hair I wanted to tighten around my knuckles and touched her chin, keeping it tilted up.
My eyes scanned her again. Focused on those luscious hips, thick and sturdy enough to keep me from feeling guilty for my demands.
Defiance flashed on her face. “You don’t budge, me either. I’d rather catch hypothermia! Don’t put those linebacker arms around me.”
“Batter, Zu—Journey.”
“No last name,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes, then gestured for the stylist who approached with a black dress.
Short? No doubt.
But classy. Sexy without doing the most.
“This one. That’s it. Don’t start.” I handed the dress to Zuri, still crowding her space. My shadow swallowed hers.
“Fine,” she murmured.
I pressed my lips to her forehead, hands cupping her neck. That pulse, a drum beneath my palms. “Just so you know, I wasn’t letting nobody else peek at my sweet cheeks anyway.”
She smacked my chest hard, but I saw it. That smile she hid when she turned away. I smiled too, my eyes glued to the retreating sway of God’s greatest gift to the male species.
“Pick a couple outfits. For every fit on your rack, I choose a scrap from the other rack.”
“Whatever, Big Country.” Zuri always snarled that name. Did I care?
Nah.
zuri
. . .
Iwas basically the Black Julia Roberts in a Pretty Woman remake. Except for different skin and shape. More education. Less … experience. And Montana’s kiss on New Year’s Eve? Made me feel like all I’d ever done was elementary stuff. I was almost convinced that Darius’s birth was a miracle.
He’d kissed me so good. But still, my mind remembered the past.
I’ll teach you a few things, Edwin had said while I dug through tissue paper to grab a new textbook from the gift bag.
Except, lingerie now came with it.
Wait. What the hell are you doing, Zuri? Don’t you dare compare Edwin to Montana.
For every fit on the rack you like, I choose a scrap from the other rack.
His words echoed in my ears, but I refused to believe he was another Dr. Edwin Heine.
For starters, his interest lay in the real me. My surname. Then more … When I didn’t give him what he wanted, he got salty. You have a 3X wig, Zuri. A parachute head. Didn’t matter that my new human hair wig—Diana Redux—wasn’t made for mere mortals. XL, 2X, 3X? Nope. This wig had a kinder sizing chart. Still, that boy dissed with Kevin Hart’s skills and the heart of a fifth grader in love.