His hand dropped where my fingers rested.
Fire flashed in his eyes.Yep. That was Big Country. And he hated how I clung to propriety like a church lady clutching the last set of pearls at a Macy’s Black Friday Sale.
“Yes, Montana?” I managed, voice clinical, even though everything in me screamed,Unhand me, or don’t. I’m flexible.
“Nothing,” he grumbled.
Yippy! Montana two-pieced Big Country, and I saw a glimpse of vulnerability. Something I guessed he didn’t share in front of many women.
I stared at him, waiting for him to be open. Honest.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t quit on me now.”
Lawd. Dodger Him, a.k.a. his alter ego, sounded like my own personal workout trainer slash sinner’s temptation. And yep, Big Country had gotten back up again.
Behind him, I gulped, tightened the bandage.
He hitched.
I told myself to check the stability of the gauze, ensure the dressing lay secure, unrumpled. In reality, my fingers traced his muscles, memorized the warmth of his skin. Somewhere between clinical and something else.
Before I could straighten, Montana claimed my wrist. He brought me before him, same as on day one. “You’ve practically seen me in my birthday suit, Zuri.”
“No. I haven’t. You a lie.”
His forehead rested against mine. If his voice hadn’t rasped from pain, I might’ve ran. “Why you treat me so bad,chère?”
“Montana, I don’t.”
“You do … damn!” His deep, Southern voice went from NOLA lingo to straight Creole as he spoke under his breath, and I didn’t understand either. Minty breath teased my lips, while his forehead kissed mine. “Lemme take you to dinner.”
“No.”
“You still won’t fake date,bébé?”
“Tell me about this scar.” My thumb pressed an old hypertrophic scar—raised, tight, and warm against the smooth expanse of his chest. It ran just below his clavicle. The kind of wound that had kissed a blade. A pale memory against his warm, pecan skin.
His rough exhale made sound travel straight from that wound into my hand. “I play baseball. I got other scars. Should I hop outta these basketball shorts?”
“You shouldn’t hop at all. However, tell me first. I might let you show me … a good time. On a date.” No crossing the line, though.Montana, I’ll have to leave again …
“Washington stabbed me. Now, where you wanna go, Zuri?”
Wash wouldn’t? I chuckled, still stuck on stupid, waiting for dumb to come.
He blinked.
“Wash … your brother … your law-abiding citizen, now Honorable Judge of a brother stabbed you?”
“He was five. We were badass kids.Chère, you don’t date me … I’ma die.”
“No!”Because it will get real, and Edwin might find us!“If you die, I’m sure your alter ego has enough juice to resuscitate your arrogant behind.”
“You gotta be tired of cooking?” His deep rasp stung and tantalized at the same time.
I jumped back as if burned. He was wearing medown.To play it off, my hand went to my hip. “Except for a new-location dinner every time Darius and I ran, I have cooked. Mind you, that’s a handful of times in four years. So between HC&PP and Chuck E. Cheese, I met my quota for dinners out.” I opened up bit by bit. “Besides, you’re paying me for the bandaging because you’re too spoiled to stay at a hospital. I don’t need thefake-datemoney.”
Screw a fake date, I craved a meaningful connection with him.
