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)
I grinned, the same sly smirk the old lady crew seemed to favor, while his long stride brought him to my booth. One of them cut her eyes at me, slicing her cornbread with a butter knife. The nerve!
He slid into the seat next to me.
“Hey,” I smiled. “Some gifts magically appeared right inside my apartment door on Christmas Eve.” My head tilted. “Which makes me wonder—if you’re so congenial with management, maybe they could return my cleaning deposit.” Ever since I cried in front of him at Chuck E. Cheese, we chatted like old friends, and he didn’t even mutter about holding me against my will.
“How was Little Dude’s holiday?” Montana asked. “You know, you foul for not coming to Christmas dinner. My momma invited you.”
Did you?
“Big Country,” a woman hollered, “I need more sugah, bébé!”
“It’s on the table, woman!” he shouted, over their mess.
They laughed. “We heard about the Dodgers dropping you. We gone cash all our checks on the first, Big Country. We got you, bébé!”
Montana groaned that he wasn’t dropped.
I gently shoulder-checked him. “This too shall pass.”
“It will when you fake date me.” He leaned in, and our thighs grazed. Mine soft. His massive, muscular. My pulse kicked up. My brain screamed, Focus!, but every part of me wanted to melt into him.
A slow grin curled my lips as my fingers grazed over his powerful thigh, letting my palm rest on the muscles bulging beneath. His heat made it impossible not to linger.
“Tell me about this phony date,” I asked, voice soft, teasing. Yeah. Let me taste the anticipation before you do me like every woman you burned.
He leaned close, voice lower and playful, that New Orleans drawl wrapped around me. Warm and buttery. “Chère … we start dinner somewhere fancy, music low. Wine. A walk down the river after. Then … who knows? Maybe we keep the night going, see how far we push this fake story.”
Mm-hmm. That damn charismatic glint in his eyes teased my insides. Things would get real. Focus, Zuri. Weed out the butterflies. Play along. As heat and desire simmered, I pretended to consider it. “Sounds enticing.” My palm squeezed his thigh. “Then what? Do you talk me into that dessert I keep pretending I don’t want?”
“Exactly, Journey. Lemme make the fake part feel real?”
My voice dropped to a salacious low. “Hear me out, Big Country. We can get more sympathy from the Dodgers if we”—I let that part linger, palm brushing another inch upward—“pair you with a chocolate cougar seated over there. The age difference, thirty …”
“Five.” Montana rolled his eyes, then chuckled under his breath. “Stop clowning me, girl.”
“So, thirty-five and eighty-nine …” or ninety-eight, no clue. “That will get you back in baseball’s good graces.” I slapped his thigh hard enough that I assaulted myself. A million tiny razors pricked my palms.
“Journey …” He teased my alias as if he could coax me out of my stubborn ways.
Inside, I burned hot. Desperate to hear him call me Zuri—finally. And breathless. This man stole the air from my lungs. But no, I’d use humor to fight his manipulative ass. You’re just another Edwin. Even so, at least the age gap wasn’t as extreme, and Montana didn’t dangle my career hopes like a carrot out of reach. But similarly, he had money, power, and around here, he commanded respect.
I shook those intrusive thoughts from my head, continuing my teasing.
“Listen.” I wagged a finger, voice mock-serious. “Old folks are living longer these days. Advances in medicines, and all.” After he grunted, I chuckled again. “Okay, my medical acumen aside, you’d have the Dodger Stadium glittering like Snowy Mountains. A bunch of snowy-haired women at … do you have more games?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, but it didn’t conceal the smile on his face.
My heart warmed. I wanted this—friendship with the legend. “Oh, poor Big Country. No more games this season. Listen, don’t decline my suggestion just yet. Grandma with the hip replacement might outlive your entire ego.”
Montana snaked his arm around my waist. His mouth nipped at the shell of my ear in a way that didn’t leave me laughing anymore. My stomach softened into jelly. “You done clowning me, chère? You know that ain’t fair.”
“Oh, it’s more than fair,” I whispered, letting my eyes flick up to his mock innocence. “It’s called self-preservation. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Montana.”
He laughed, that deep, rough rumble sliding over my skin, and my body ached, craving the release only he could give.
Montana’s gaze dropped heavy on me, a dark expression hotter than candle wax over bare skin. His mouth curved at the edges. “What should I do with the cake, Journey?”
I needed to scoot my hot tail right on over with those grannies. Sit next to the woman who wanted to cut me with her butter knife. “You can’t have this cake, Big Country. Never, ever.” My finish held a teasing lilt, melodic and shady as ever. Did I feel it? Nope.