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)
Last month, I’d tried to forget that ESPN still had my name crawling across the bottom ticker with words like suspended and meltdown. Now, I had bigger worries. Zuri had become a multifaceted reason not to think about it. I had thirty days of fake dates. Most of these days would remain a secret between us. Forget social media. I had this chance to win her. Because something big was coming.
If she ran, man, my heart couldn’t take that.
zuri
. . .
The silk of the midnight-blue pantsuit clung to my curves, a smooth embrace that rivaled the beauty of the Tuileries Gardens across the street. The top dipped low, testing Montana’s self-control and mine. My heels clicked over the cobblestone sidewalk.
Even beneath the glow of old Holophane streetlamps—a history lesson courtesy of Montana—we looked like trouble in matching colors. The type of trouble that … made me want to pick out ugly Christmas sweaters 300-and-something odd days too soon. Perhaps select them for the next fifty years.
He wore midnight-blue trousers and a cream-white button-down, open at the chest. Someone needed a bib, all right. Me. I could gaze and salivate all night.
“How much farther?” I squinted through the outline of buildings older than the great-grandparents I’d never met. Besides, the Louvre was closed, so what would we sightsee?
“We here, bébé.” He caught my hand and spun me into his arms, cupping my bottom as if he owned me. “Anytime I’m with you? We already arrived.”
“Ah-hmm …” I hope that didn’t sound breathless.
Montana tilted my chin as the breeze carried the faint scent of rain and roses from the Tuileries Gardens. Lord, let it rain.
“You ready to fall in love, Zuri …?”
My lips parted. Took every muscle in my body not to offer a bobblehead nod. Or say, Too late.
“With this place?” he teased.
I never made love until last night. His gentle, slow strokes were all the more intimate as a glistening trail of a rogue tear streamed down my cheek. And the other things we did. Served each other? I almost rolled my eyes.
“Montana, where are we?” Paris had nondescript buildings. All stony, gray, and gargoyle architecture. When we entered the place, Wham! A speakeasy. Or a cathedral. Or museums. I had enjoyed our visit to that art gallery.
Yep, romance bloomed with every brushstroke in that gallery. Abstract Expressionism got me! Instead of paint splatter, I saw love.
A green squiggle leaned lovingly into a purple swirl for a kiss. And the red-hot splatter? Fireworks. Those same fireworks imprinted behind my eyes while squeezed shut in ecstasy, right before Montana returned to my mouth, those thick lips glossed gorgeously in my love for him. Somebody tell me, I ain’t cray?
All the abstract art. It was us.
Me.
Him.
Blobs of love.
Blurs of passion.
Montana raised an eyebrow. When had he ascended those five steps to a creepy, dark, stony building?
Oh … Awkward Black Chick, Season Two just began. It had been a while since I forgot to respond. I started up the stairs. “Is this another speakeasy?”
“Not enough time for repeats.”
We were on day three, and after my one zillionth call to my son, I’d wondered, how could Montana top date ideas for a month? That was another thing. We’d leave tomorrow. But he hadn’t posted on socials today. Not that I noticed.
As he keyed in an entry code, my eyes took in the heavy, intricate wood doors with wrought-iron sconces. Low lanterns cast more shadows than light. My pulse drummed to the chaotic flicker.
“If this is a freak off—”
“Share you? The Dodgers ain’t never gone let me back.” My suggestion got to him because he switched to mumbling curses in Creole as he opened the door.
Montana flicked a light, and instead of a Parisian members-only jazz den, we stepped into a home. Tall windows. White stone floors. A curved banister. My fingers trailed over a velvet lounger, and more images—blobs, swirls, this abstract love that should feel real—flashed in my mind as I strolled to an open kitchen. And that island?
Yep. More blobs. Swirls. Us. All over it.
I glanced around. “You forgot we had a hotel?”
“Got the feeling I can’t cook you breakfast once we return to the 504, bébé.”
Ah, New Orleans. “Well …”
He swooped his arms around me. “Damn, my momma got to you. Meddling ass.”
“Don’t call—”
In one blink of an eye, Montana had thrown me over his shoulder, and his hand slammed hard onto my behind. Enough to rattle teeth.
“Montana. Ouch!”
“We got one night to undo what she did.”
I giggled while he carried me up the stairs.
The next morning, I breathed in the scent of Montana’s off-white linen shirt that now caressed my skin. His black boxer briefs molded every muscle deliciously. I also wore a black thong, so yeah, I was counting this as a win. We were matching—mostly. The sweet delusions I’d told myself—I hoped they’d stay in Paris.