“I can cook,” I gasped.
He fished out a shell.
“How you know that wasn’t you?” I erupted in giggles. Literally, it wasn’t him. Montana had one-handedly cracked two eggs.
He pressed his lips to mine. “Lemme feed you … for the next twenty-something days, please. Or I gotta add that to the contract?”
Twenty-something days? I worked the sudden lump in my throat, gutted by the end of us.Again. “If the Dodgers cut you, become HC&PP’s head chef. Maybe turn it into Hot Chicken & Protein Powder House, ahem, Maison.”
“So you gone bypass the whole”—his eyes flicked away from me—“benched until April situation?”
Yes, because you make me this person. Corny and in love!“You’ll serve the same chicken with protein shakes. Guys will come because obvi, you’ll play up the”—my voice went all cheesy infomercial—“you too can have this body. Total crap. The women will love the you-too-can-watch-this-bodypropaganda.” I poked his bare chest. “Do a rift on Hooters. Only male servers. Shirtless.”
He smirked. “You wanna be out of a whole job?”
“Compare that tohalfa job?”
“Right. Damn. You got me.” In no time, Montana sat on a stool. I was still comfortable—crisscross applesauce on the counter in front of him.He said he wanted to watch me eat. Two could playthat game. I side-eyed him as my fork pushed mushy rice away from my shrimp and eggs.
“You too good for grits?”
“Grits?” I blinked. “This isn’t overcooked rice?”
“Gimme the names of your old foster parents.”
“Behave, boy.” I folded my arms. “I’ve read grits on the dinner menu. Your bougie restaurant needs to have menu pictures. Your mom offered to cook them for breakfast once. She must’ve read my facial expression.”Now, please don’t make me eat this mush.
“I see. It’s usually a brunch situation. But our restaurant consultant suggested making it a dinner exclusive and increasing the prices.”
I gasped. “Your restaurant already puts Bonnie and Clyde to shame!”
“Joke’s on you,bébé, because every time you put on that apron, you Bonnie.” Montana dug his fork into my plate, scooping grits and spearing a shrimp. He placed the fork near my mouth. I opened wide. A buttery garlic scent wafted over. As I tried to take a bite, he pulled back.
Heat scorched my throat. So embarrassing.
He dropped the fork and kissed the pulse flickering at my neck. “I like you this way. Awkward.”
I slugged him.
Montana barked a laugh. “I’m sorry,chère. Your mouth was open.” He leaned forward. His tongue teased my lips open. “Forgot … how to … respond,” he said between kisses. “Lemme make it up to you?” He held up the fork again.
I took the bite he offered. The flavors hit me. Okay, savory grits. Tender shrimp spiced so good, I thought Montana was flirting with my taste buds.
Montana’s phone buzzed. “Gotta take this.”
As I ate, he spoke in a low voice and watched me. Dang, my body screamed,Look away.
When he turned around, I pigged out. I was hungry. But this?
I’d need more than stretchy pants if they served them to the lunch crowd.
Plate licked clean, I eyed Montana’s food and glanced over my shoulder. No sign of him. The leather jacket Montana had pulled off me last night lay on the ground, the contract we’d signed in the inside pocket.
Truth be told, the paper could’ve remained in New Orleans. Even though Paris had become our heaven on earth, I needed it to ground me.
Thiswill… end.
I suddenly reached for his food with ulterior motives beyond its amazing taste. I scooped grits, stuck my fork into plump shrimp, and wolfed it down.Mmmm.Comfort me. I shoveled another heap of grits onto my plate. Then another succulent shri?—
