Yes, I was.
“Ahh,” Montana hollered.
“Relax, it’s four inches from your bandage. And I’ve sacrificed too many years of education to be called Doctor?—”
“Which college, Doctor Swee—? JOURNEY!” Another holler, this time more growly.
“University of … Somewhere, North America.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me in front of him. With Montana on the island, we were closer to eye to eye. My pulse thudded, hollow in my throat, as my eyes dropped to those lips that had moved like magic over mine last night.
You are in so much trouble, Zuri. Yes, I had taken up talking to myself in third person, so I didn’t forget my name.My personal conversations never hit so hard.
So.
Much.
Trouble.
A white row of teeth bit that bottom lip I wanted all over me right now. Montana shook his head. “Can I at least know your name?”
Panic washed over me. I hadn’t said my name aloud in years.
He deserves to know, girl!
I cleared my throat. “Zuri.”
“Zuri.” He smiled. Those lips again, that trifecta below. I backed away. He took my wrist again, thumb playing provocatively slow over my pulse. “You don’t need the wig here, Zuri.”
Yup, I did. And a parka jacket. Snow boots. Or a chastity belt. Yeah, just a chastity belt. After last night, the thought of succumbing to temptation evenonceterrified me. I flicked a few strands of Diana from my face. “Can I assess your bandage, Montana?”
“Please do.” He stopped caressing my wrist.
“Got gloves?”
“Washington dropped by with some stuff. Only checked it for my meds. Good stuff.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Oh, I must’ve slept like a baby. Where’s the stuff he brought?”
“Glad you got your rest on that angel-threaded lullaby bed.” Montana chuckled. “You bougie now,bébé?”
“Maybe.” I retrieved a hospital bag from a chair. I then washed my hands at the copper sinkclosestto me before stepping behind him again.
My clean fingers swept over the bandage. Damp. Not soaked. “You’re not bleeding like crazy.”
“Like crazy? That official medical lingo, Doctor Sweet Cheeks?”
I snorted. “You know, when I get technical with you, you talk crap. When I get down to your level?—”
“Down? Damn. Who’s cocky?”
Aweek later, we’d struck up a routine while I friend-zoned Montana, in the temptingly close proximity of nurturing him back to health. Montana had refused to let me go home to pack another bag. Probably payback for denying him sponge baths. Instead of saying he worried I might not return, he’d had new clothes delivered for Darius and me. More toys and illustrated books for my baby.
We met each morning at the kitchen island after I showered, brushed my teeth, andput on cuter loungewear.I know, I know. It might’ve looked like I wanted this. Granted, my son didn’t wake up until an hour later. But I’d gotten Montana stabbed. He deserved acutevisual, while I didn’t crossthatline.
