Gah. This man. My heart. He’d pulled at places in my heart I didn’t know existed.
“Zuri, we’d enjoy each other?—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—in bed.”
If I trusted younotto sex me up and down the Mississippi River, I’d… I shook the thought from my head. “News flash: I retired from the baby-making business, with no pension and zero interest in redoing orientation.” Angered at the thought of Edwin’s words after I broke the news about my pregnancy, I picked up the pen.
I wrote, all caps,AMENDMENT—NO LIPS, NO HIPS, NO DIPS. ONLY FOOD AND COLD CASH. $50k PERIODT.I placed my initials near my amendment.
“Initial and date this before I sign, sir.”
Eyes rolling, Montana took the pen and scrawled something illegible. He pushed the paper back in my direction, not letting go. His eyes pinned mine. “You know you can trust me, Zuri.”
“Sure,” I replied. Though he rolled his eyes at my response, he let go of the paper. I signed with a flourish on the signature line. “Let the fake-ish begin.”And therealheartbreak.
montana
. . .
My chest was tight on the direct flight to Paris. Sweating bullets in first class. Air conditioning be damned. I kept praying Zuri wouldn’t scroll social media. One peek and she’d see that Guggenheim Management decided not to bench me. Yep, I’d be hitting spring training in Arizona the second our Valentine’s contract ended. All because the owners ate up Zuri’s monologue like HC&PP’s Big Maman Pound Cake and some Creole Kool-Aid Royale.
The plan was simple: get Zuri out of my system in thirty days. Detox. Move on. Thirty days was ample time for any woman to fall for Big Country. Needed to confirm I still had it like that.
But when we hit passport control in France, I wasn’t sure what I feared more, her papers not clearing … or the fact that my heart had caught feelings like contraband. My brain said,Relax. My chest said,Too late, bruh. She’s already passed customs and tryna sneak into your heart.Yep. I’d played myself with that contract.
Immigration stamped us through, and Zuri … let out the air she’d been holding. She ran her fingers through that big crown of human hair. I hated this part. The faking. But she still feared some dude whose name I needed to know.
At the hotel, Zuri requested extra pillows before rushing into the suite’s massive bathroom.When she strolled out, the silence got thicker. We’d never forced it and didn’t start now.
Since I’d drawn the line at two suites, we traded rooms. I closed the door to the bathroom while I relieved myself. I took a call, then walked out, wiping my hands on a terry cloth towel, and stumbled upon the Great Wall of China.
“Got enough pillows?” I asked, teeth gritted.
“They had a limit.” Her shoulder lifted. “Ice cream? No fake date in Paris should end without ice cream.”
I almost winced.Fake.Crap, I’d done this to myself. Her guard was higher than these pillows the past few days. I missed her. And I knew if I apologized for being an ass this week, she’d apologize for preaching to the Dodgers’ execs.
But Big Country wasn’t helping. Dude didn’t believe in apologies. And me? I hadn’t offered one in years. So, the quick “my bad” came out as “we gotta fake date again.” Yeah, my brand sales slipped a small percentage after the season wrapped. Logical. Some fans pushed on to basketball and football. But I wanted her around. Always. I was catching the type of feelings not even my alter ego could clown me out of.
“The French call itcrème glacée.”
We took pictures along the way to Berthillon. All of them? Mine. For the fans? Just one. Damned if I’d be parting with all the images ofuscluttering my phone.
Zuri across from the Eiffel Tower, hands capturing the sun.
Her on the Pont Neuf, caught mid-laugh.
A straight shot showed most of her face, and I promised her that photo would never hit social media.Please. Her face was too gorgeous to share. Then the two of us clowning at bookstalls along the Seine. She hated romance, so I made up stories from the inside of book jackets of dusty old French romance novels.
Even the accidental shots? I’ma hoard them. Her rolling her eyes when I tried on a beret at a tourist stand. Her cheeks puffedwith the large macaron I placed in her mouth when she wanted to take a cute bite.
We did a Live though. I let the world have that. Zuri sat on a railing near the Île de la Cité. With her cheek pressed against my chest, I rambled about baseball and Paris. My followers ate it up. She asked to see what caption I posted after, leaning close and curious.
I tapped a caption in quick and closed the phone before she caught it.
She smirked. “What did you write? Big Country and his mystery woman take on Paris?”
