Or did he?
Damn, though, he had me sounding like a little kid handing out invites from Party City back in the day. Like,not you, to the dork in fifth grade.
I left him on read. Set a reminder on my iPhone for one month out.
Respond to old head about meeting at Li’l Dizzy’s.
zuri
. . .
If my life had turned into a social media challenge, it was the ice bucket challenge.I didn’t sign up for this mess! Nor did I expect Friday the Thirteenth to attack before I awoke. After running from the cartel in my dreams, I slammed into a seated position, body slick to the touch from cold sweats. And February 13thfelt like October 31st, drenched, and my body feeling so heavy, like I was wearing Queen Charlotte’s wigs from Bridgerton. All of them. And both Diana Rosses.
I flopped over onto my back in the king-size bed and groaned.Wait … Was I part of the problem?I questioned all those times I blamed Darius for the waterbed. Aw, my little champ. I needed to apologize. Maybe I’d do a sleep journal for a couple of weeks to confirm.
After lifting enough body parts to confidently get me out of this sweat bucket of a bed, I stared down at the mess.
The temptation to sneak into Montana’s Amazon account andPrimehis momma another mattress was great. I’d practically Saran Wrapped the other guest room mattress after Darius’saccident—before he got a new car-shaped bed. I told myself to snatch the sheets off. But I continued to glare at the problem. If Darius lookedsuspect trying to smuggle Gushers into my purse weeks ago, I would look even worse now. Had to get these sheets in the washer without Virginia wondering if I was going into perimenopause. Maybe she’d change her mind about her son and me.
My hand, as if I were hovering over a pot of boiling crawfish, hung over the mattress. Hell, I knew it was wet enough to sprout green beans and tomatoes.
“Bad dreams again,mon chère?” Virginia leaned against the door, her eyes reflecting a wealth of personal history.
“I’m so sorry …” I muttered.
Her hand fell to her hip. “What was the dream about?”
Although reluctant, I brought Virginia up to speed on the worst decisions of my life while she cooked breakfast. French toast from scratch. She wouldn’t allow me to lift a spoon, so I showered. By the time I returned, she’d washed the mixing bowls, had already made my plate, and was whisking homemade whipped cream. Her first husband? Dumb. Yeah, real dumb. Ezekiel could be three hundred pounds, jolly, and eating every meal while doing the jig. But then again, she wouldn’t have married Tex and Ten’s father.
Montana strolled into the kitchen, a mug from his house in hand, since Mr. Bougie-No himself only drankhiscoffee. Virginia drank bitter chicory. I took the mug from his hand before he could bring it up to his mouth and drank. “Ugh, Montana! You have the good syrups and creams. This is what you bring?”
“Then bring me coffee in bed,chère. Put all the sugar you want in yours.” He sat next to me, patting my thigh as if he were smooth while his momma gave us the side-eye.How did Virginia birth this heathen?
“Speaking of beds,” Miss Virginia began.
I cleared my throat, conducting the New Orleans Philharmonics.Lawd, I know she didn’t!
She stopped herself, like even she knew it was too soon to go that far. Bringing up women and hormones to a man? Nope. She said, “Neither of us got much sleep last night,monamour. Maddy’s store still hurts me. That there dahlin’ of yours”—her eyes flickedto me, with a look that said,I see you, but I won’t tell your business—“isn’t doing nothing mannish. Bringing you chicory in bed?Non! But she has bad dreams, Montana.”
“Edwin?” Montana asked, the vein in his forehead practically begging for parole.
“Dreams like this …” Acrid air clogged my throat, and my voice felt small. “They make me run, Montana.”
Virginia’s face softened, sadness hanging off her words like Spanish moss. “Mmm,chère. Ain’t no worse feeling than running in your sleep when your soul needs rest.”
Nodding, Montana pulled me into his lap. “You safe right here. The fastest you ever gonna run is when Auntie Peaches says the buffet line at the family reunion is open. You just gotta beat my momma. My bet is on you.”
Though he laughed, it sounded stiffer than ever. I remembered him not allowing me to go all comedic self-deprecation, but I playfully shoved his chest since he threw a little shade at his momma.
Before Virginia chimed in, Montana tilted my face and kissed me quickly. Just a brush, which caught me off guard, sweeter than powdered sugar on a beignet.
“Uh-uh.” Miss Virginia smacked her lips. “Y’all don’t get carried away. I got eyes.”
“Relax, Momma. This is just a base hit. You can lay some hands after I try to steal home.” He winked at me, and I wilted. He had stolen home, alright. And the second we got past Virginia’s porch swing, he was all hands and lips and … stealing parts of me I wished he’d claim forever.
zuri
. . .
