My chest pulled. Although the Dodgers had lifted my probation, I was determined not to let our contract become the mistake of my life. “Okay. Keep that part to yourself. For now. I wanna know, though. When you’re ready.”
Her lashes lowered. “Can’t.”
“You can.”
“Later, Montana.” A smile played on those pretty lips. “The hotel staff arrived with gift bags when we headed to the elevator to come out this evening. Black-tie attire. You’re supposed to wear black tie for dinner. Let’s get ready.”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“You said nofakedate was complete without ice cream. This was enough.”
“You wanna go home?” Her brow lifted.
“The paps had a field day when we ate Jenga pieces in LA.”
Her laugh broke, warm and surprised. “They did?”
“Yep. Close-up and all. Now I posted on social media. We good for a while.”
Zuri’s laughter faded, her soft brown eyes on me. I had her where I wanted her.Mostly.
zuri
. . .
The night air nipped at my toes through my new black leather peep-toe booties. Didn’t matter. Not when the moon hung full and soft over Paris, glowing against the cobblestone, washing the ancient buildings in its glow. Definitely not when Montana’s broad frame in that dark peacoat became a permanent, protective fixture at my side. The world around me was no longer a stage for a painful slapstick, with the echo of others’ laughter after I endured every emotional blow.
Every few steps, I risked a glance. He carried himself as usual—big, calm, confident. But tonight, something was different. His head tilted back every so often as he studied old buildings with their glowing balconies and explained architecture. While I enjoyed the lesson, I relished how I didn’t stand before Big Country, the legend. Instead, my date, Montana Babineaux, gave me all his attention.
“Here we are,” he said as we approached another street. “La Goutte d’Or.”
Music spilled from cafés, and a sweet smell drifted through the air. “So, this is Black Paris?” I grinned at a woman on the corner offering to braid anyone’s hair who glanced her way.
As his arm claimed me again, and we walked over, my shoulderslowered. I could breathe again.I didn’t have to clamp my mouth to stop from blurting:I killed a man.My son’swould-be abductor.
Though I’d acted in self-defense, the weight of death never left my chest.
How could I force this concern on Montana? He already carried his probation with the Dodgers, the media painting him as a villain. Couldn’t hand him my darkness.
So instead, I followed this man into one of the most diverse arrondissements of Paris. The air smelled like spicy plantains.
He said, “Got a little Tremé in Paris?”
“Tremé?” I smiled.
He tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it. Music in the street, food hitting before you even step inside. This feels like home. NOLA.”
“Oh? Never seen that part of New Orleans. After work, Darius and I stayed inside. Then you kidnapped us.”
His jaw worked—grinding regret. “We gone fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“When we get back, I’ma show you NOLA. You can wear this.” He touched a strand of my wig. “Darius won’t even have to wait in line at Café du Monde.”
“You want to show my son too?” My voice strangled at the thought. I appreciated how he paid attention to Darius. But I thought thisdatingstuff was private. Just for us.
