A smirk threatened to hijack my face.
“Cool it, Montana.” Peaches pretended to reposition a garnish on a square plate, boasting a petty grin. “Journey never heard of you. We confirmed that already.”
His mom glanced between us, as if tickled pink by this revelation.Dang, she and Peaches were a trip. Always entertained. Virginia probed, “You’re not familiar with … Big Sky?—”
“C’mon now, Momma, you know it’s not BigSkyCountry, like Montana is known for. It’s Big?—”
“Country.” Virginia scowled. “Mybébé’sa businessman, not some fool with a toothless mouth emptier than a daiquiri machine after Fat Tuesday. Big Country, humph.”
While they argued playfully, I picked up two plates.Lémon PoivreWings, Butter Me Down Cornbread, and a rib basket—its ridiculous name I needed to memorize.
Ms. Peaches stepped into my path. All hips and smiles. “You forgot to tell him your name.”
My gimme-a-break grin didn’t help me slip past her.
“Don’t pin the woman in.” Montana sighed. “She might quit, Auntie Peaches. Her name is Journey. Says so on her name tag.”
Virginia placed her hand on her hip. “If Journey quits, it’s your fault, Montana. Got her over here speechless, giving her the same sweltering look your pa?—”
“Momma.” The playfulness vanished, and tension sharpened his tone. In two strides, he dominated the space between us, stealing the plates from my hand. “Which table?”
“Uh …” I clung to the rib basket.
“Relax.” Montana lowered his voice. “You looked even cuter trying to wrestle me out of my shirt.”
My glare said,Did not!
He tilted his head; smirk loaded with charm and zero shame. “I get it, though. I’ll stop flirting now that I know you work here. Okay?” He stared into my eyes as if drowning in the mahogany brown of them.
Blink, Zuri, blink!
“You don’t tell me a table, Journey”—he backed toward the door and effortlessly pushed through with his shoulder—“these two will eat you alive trying to get you to marry me and save my soul.”
“From all thedirtygroupies,” Peaches muttered as the door swooshed shut behind us.
“You still haven’t told me which table,” he said.
I’d forgotten.Dang. What was wrong with me? I never made mistakes. In my world, a slip-up wasn’t a salty beignet or forgetting a side of fries—it was pushing the wrong med, the wrong dose. A mistake in the ER didn’t end with an apology; it ended with a coffin.
I searched my mind for what I’d read on the ticket and told him a table number. “And for the record, Mr. Babineaux, nobody tried to undress you.”
“Right …” Seconds later, Montana placed the plates and rib basket on the table, then turned to me. His stance relaxed. His broad shoulders shielded the embarrassment on my face that I doubted Miss Diana Ross—my twenty-pound wig—could accomplish.
“Um … so … you’re my boss, technically.” I began.
“I’m not?—”
“Yes. You. Are. This place has a third owner. One of Virginia’s sons. You.” My hand dropped on my hip. Staring. Again. At the delicious smear. The muscles. “Uh, I guess since you play baseball, Dollar General’s three-pack won’t cut it?”
He chuckled. “Please don’t.”
“Okay, fine. You’re rich.” I wasn’t always poor. Student loans tried, but I hadn’t hit rock bottom until I escaped my life.
He smirked as if he understood my pain and my shirt obsession. “Listen, I’m a silent partner. Not your boss,bébé.”
Bébé?Mm-hmm. What happened to no flirting?
He sniffed a laugh. “You’ve got that awkward Black?—”
