“Dinner is in the microwave.” She burst into laughter. “Padon. Every time I pop something into it, I imagine Montana stealing my dinners. Them boys. They eat you out of house and home and still want more!”
“Hah … hehehe.” Oh … why did I bother? But I’d mastered the art of smiling at people whofellbackonto eggplant-shaped objects—common complaint in the ER. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll do breakfast tomorrow.”
She told me to get settled, then meandered out of the cozy living room. I glanced at the time. Seven p.m. Above the clock on the wall was an image of Jesus; a dearly departed president, and another more, current … not too current … president. And a framed picture of her grandson.
Elijah had Washington’s eyes.
My bottom lip wobbled while Darius jumped at my side, talking nonstop about his newcousins.
Although she offered me another room—same as Montana had, ulterior motives sparkling in his eyes—I’d placed everything in one guest room.
Darius jumped onto the bed, the feathery rose duvet puffing around him.
“Tell me about your fun weekend?” I focused on him as I went to eat dinner.
Later, I imagined how Montana pressed the reset button on our situation-ship. Months ago, I ghosted through life. No desire to be known. Loved.
Now, I wanted more. I punched my fluffy pillow. Forget it. The accusations weren’t the problem. I was. I reached for my phone in the dimly lit room. Grabbed it from the nightstand, turned onto myside, facing the window, so the LED light didn’t disturb Darius, and searchedMontana Babineaux.
The internet exploded with information. I settled on a video where fans created a reel of his greatest moments.
“Whoa.” On screen, he smacked a ball so hard I expected the wood to splinter.
He cracked a homer. The video creator turned the bat into a mic for a dramatic finish.
“Skills.” Big Countryandthe YouTuber had them.
I fanned myself, glancing at the next photo of his skin glistening while he slid into home. Slow motion caught everything. The dirt streaks on his crisp white Dodger uniform. The bulge of muscles in his thighs. His slick sleeve tattoos.
Ugh. His arms should be wrapped around me tonight.
Zuri, stop torturing your?—
The video flashed another image of him hugging a boy with a bald head and a gray tint beneath excited eyes. What disease did the kid have?
“Can’t sleep?” Virginia called from the doorway behind me.
I gasped, tucking the phone beneath my hip to cut the illumination.
“Yeah, I caught you. Come. I stash the ammo in the living room.”
I rolled over and whispered, “Ammo? Like ammunition … bullets.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Are we going hunting? I was not shooting Peter Cottontail. I slipped from beneath the blankets, pulled on the silk, but not too revealing, robe that Montana had gotten me when I came to help him. Oh man, I hoped nobody had broken into our place. That bossy Dodger hadn’t let me return home. And he’d needed the help …
Okay, he made me forget my obligations. Sorta. I had intended to leave almost everything anyway.
As I closed the bedroom door behind me, my head tilted.
Wait.How’d Darius get Brody? The brontosaur’s fuzzy head tucked beneath Darius’s cheek as he held it close.
I pushed the door shut and entered the living room. Virginia sat on a plush, chocolate-brown couch, photo album in hand.
“Hey, uh, Darius has his dino.”
“Chère, I’d’ve broke the news at breakfast. Shanice called. You got robbed.”
