“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.
Montana pulled his arm away. A relentless sigh heaved from his sultry lips, then the world returned. We’d been flirting inches away from my son.
After a beat, he replied, “Funny. I let you walk me into that, Journey.”
Before I could pat myself on the back, Darius dropped a crayon onto the coloring page. “My momma don’t wannawalkwith you. She said you have large hands.”
I snorted into my lemonade, choking. My baby didn’t get whatwalking intomeant.
Montana pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Lil’ Dude, why you gotta treat me like that. I taught you to catch.”
Darius muttered about his new toys at home, then returned to his coloring book.
I laughed again, wiping another stray tear. “See? Even my baby knows I shouldn’t sign up for your mess.”
“It’s not … mess. You just closed off.” The faintest twitch of a muscle worked right above that beard my fingers wanted to drag down.Ugh. The only feelings he had forced blood to flow away from his brain. But me? I cared.
My tone softened. “Okay. You can sorta guess my background, which means I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath. Respect. Confidentiality.”Be vulnerable with me.I shrugged, as if my demeanor spoke to a weight greater than the fear of letting another man in. My voice betrayed me, with a shallow crack. “S-See? I’m open.”
“You, open?” Montana’s eyes locked on mine. Heat in them. Enough heat to melt chocolate. My gaze needed to tear away, but his mouth curved into a grin—framed by that beard. “Haven’t seen you open, Journey.”
Lord, help me. Montana made me forget all about the jambalaya on my plate. I pressed his bicep. Steel beneath my palm, pure steel and fire. “Move, Montana. My break is over.”
The other night, I gave myself third-degree burns playing with fire. Now I was avoiding that six-foot-four inferno like potato salad after someone’s boogie auntie snuck in raisins and diced pickles.
It had been this thing we do. He was borderline witty; I was borderline a pilot without a license. No flight manifest. No clearance. No clue how to land from the high of him.
Aknockpulled me out of my musings.Uh, Zuri.You’re thinking of him again.
I rolled over in bed after an afternoon nap and wondered if he’d saved his endorsement deal. He’d flown to LA yesterday after begging me to go too.
Still thinking of him, girl.
I rubbed my face and wandered around my dark, tiny apartment.
