Iworked extra days after the Christmas rush to pay for a last-minute gift. But what else?
That man tried to tickle my funny bone one afternoon, writing on the blackboard outside the French doors.Today’s special: Fake Dating Big Country—comes with fries. He better be glad I erased the blackboard while bickering with him about “false advertising” before women saw it. They’d devour every drop of his fine behind. Besides, I’d already learned the super long complicated name of the Creole fries:Les Frites Don’t Miss.Overkill.
Two evenings after Christmas, a group of old biddies had a book discussion. Montana had rolled up his sleeves to serve their table so I could have a longer break than usual. Except, hemagicallylooked as natural as a six-four grizzly while carrying sweet teas.
Boy, please. On day one, he took those plates from me with the swagger of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay’s love child. Almost gave him all my tips!
He kept looking at the booth where I drank myBayou BreezeLemonade next to Darius. Probably wished I felt sorry enough to date his ass.Fakedatethat is.
Joke was on him. A granny, in a hearing aid, loudly asked, “So … you still single,Biggg Country?”
I nearly dropped my spoonful of jambalaya. Turned my head away from this mess and scrubbed my fingers through Darius’s twisties, pretending not to be interested.
“Mom!” My son swatted my hand and focused on his coloring books.
Unable to redirect my attention for too long, I looked again. Montana placed plates in front of them. Instead of digging in, they grinned, staring at him like he came withthreesides and a biscuit.
One chimed in, palm pressed against his bicep. “Since the Dodgers got rid of you, I’ll take you home tonight, Big Country.”
The chocolate cougars started shouting over each other. “No! My social security check?”
“Uhn! Uhn! I got SSA and survivor’s ben?—”
“Ladies, chill!” Montana rushed to put their food down and turned away, cussing under his breath.
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 rightinsidemy 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 ifwe”—I let that part linger, palm brushing another inch upward—“pair you with a chocolate cougar seated over there. The age difference, thirty …”
