All the abstract art. It was us.
Me.
Him.
Blobs of love.
Blurs of passion.
Montana raised an eyebrow. When had he ascended those five steps to a creepy, dark, stony building?
Oh…Awkward Black Chick, Season Two just began.It had been a while since I forgot to respond. I started up the stairs. “Is this another speakeasy?”
“Not enough time for repeats.”
We were on day three, and after my one zillionth call to my son, I’d wondered, how could Montana top date ideas for a month?That was another thing. We’d leave tomorrow. But he hadn’t posted on socials today. Not that I noticed.
As he keyed in an entry code, my eyes took in the heavy, intricate wood doors with wrought-iron sconces. Low lanterns cast more shadows than light. My pulse drummed to the chaotic flicker.
“If this is a freak off?—”
“Share you? The Dodgers ain’t never gone let me back.” My suggestion got to him because he switched to mumbling curses in Creole as he opened the door.
Montana flicked a light, and instead of a Parisian members-only jazz den, we stepped into a home. Tall windows. White stone floors. A curved banister. My fingers trailed over a velvet lounger, and more images—blobs, swirls, this abstract love that should feel real—flashed in my mind as I strolled to an open kitchen. And that island?
Yep. More blobs. Swirls. Us. All over it.
I glanced around. “You forgot we had a hotel?”
“Got the feeling I can’t cook you breakfast once we return to the 504,bébé.”
Ah, New Orleans. “Well …”
He swooped his arms around me. “Damn, my momma got to you. Meddling ass.”
“Don’t call?—”
In one blink of an eye, Montana had thrown me over his shoulder, and his hand slammed hard onto my behind. Enough to rattle teeth.
“Montana. Ouch!”
“We got one night to undo what she did.”
I giggled while he carried me up the stairs.
The next morning, I breathed in the scent of Montana’s off-white linen shirt that now caressed my skin. His black boxer briefs molded every muscle deliciously. I also wore a black thong,so yeah, I was counting this as a win. We were matching—mostly. The sweet delusions I’d told myself—I hoped they’d stay in Paris.
Kinda like what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? I’d never forget this.
I hoped these sentiments would detach themselves from my heart or attach to Montana’s.Could he love me in thirty days?For now, I watched him move around the kitchen.
“Fully stocked?” I asked.
“No, question,bébé. I gotta feed you.”
As I sat on the wooden slab counter, I cracked an egg.
“I got it, Zuri.”
