Big Country

Chapter 1

zuri

. . .

Ibacked through the swinging kitchen door into the Hot Chicken told me kids eat free, and Tuesdays were half-price entrées.

I knew that was a lie, but she didn’t let us go without filling our bellies. And I was grateful.

Virginia and Peaches had listened to the story I’d tested Darius on not responding to.

The kid was too smart and chatty. He’d accidentally expose us.

Virginia had welcomed us to return for celebratory homemade ice cream after I started the new job I’d lined up.

Unfortunately, a family member of the owner suddenly had a “need.” Darius had harped until we returned for ice cream, then tattled that I’d not gotten the job. Virginia had hired me to start today.

Miss Peaches blocked my path into the kitchen, big hip leaning against the open door. “So, you aren’t always in robot mode?” She chuckled. “Told you, my food is irresistible. Now go flirt with my nephew.”

Nephew? “I wasn’t …”

“Mm-hmm …” Her smile radiated a challenge.

Not here to make friends, I slunk inside the kitchen.

Virginia followed me. “Sugar, it’s okay. He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”

Correction. A big man. That was all man.

He kept his composure while I wanted to hide in horror as if my clothes were covered in dessert.

Welp? Hiding was basically my cardio anyway, thanks to Darius’s father and his generous gifts—my beautiful son and a lifetime subscription of PTSD.

Wait. Shouldn’t they be handling Birkin Lady?

Oh … no. Since I hadn’t given her enough attention, she was biding her time.

Keeping quiet. She. Would. Sue. She wasn’t the type to want a free meal. She’d own this place. And then …

I’d be out of a job. Again.

As if the patisserie read my anxious thoughts, she offered an encouraging smile, then handed Virginia two dessert plates before returning to the bakery station.

Virginia gestured to the saucers. “I’ll apologize to our guests.”

“And the lady with the braids, right?”

“Of course.”

I sighed, hoping her Creole lilt would help keep her restaurant. “Thank you, Miss Virginia. I’m sorry,” I squeaked as the doors closed.

I marched toward the point-of-sale terminal instead of snatching this wig from my head.

The temperature was ten degrees hotter than hell in Louisiana.

The season wasn’t the reason, with Christmas coming in two weeks.

It was Diana Ross. The 1995 cover of “I Will Survive” was playing at the swap meet when I bought my Diana wig.

Through tears, I’d slapped the beauty on my head.

She turned my scalp into a sauna, though.

But I couldn’t take the plunge and chop off my Sisterlocks—almost all I had left of my own life.

While other workers bustled around me, I folded my arms. The place would be even more packed come evening.

Men in sharp blazers, crisp jeans, and polished loafers.

Their bougie counterparts in bright lipstick, bold jewelry, and flowy dresses.

Upscale urban casual, but unmistakably NOLA.

Luckily, I wouldn’t see much of the busier night crowd since my bosses understood my circumstances with Darius. Sorta.

“Big Country!” Someone hollered, and a chant broke off.

I blinked at the swinging door.

“Journey,” Peaches began, nodding her approval to the chef’s Fire on the Bayou Salmon. “You know my nephew’s a Dodger. Just won the World Series.”

What world?

The man whose swagger outshone the sugary smudge at his chest strolled into the kitchen with Virginia tucked, small and the picture of bliss, at his side. Up close? Lord, help me. He was taller than tall.

Yeah, I’d stood beneath him, but I was too busy staring at his washboard abs, I mean, the spill.

“My son didn’t introduce himself.” Virginia swatted his large bicep. “Always rushing to greet everyone.”

“I tried.” Dimples flashed in the man’s beard, and he suppressed a laugh while his straight teeth chewed on a thumbnail.

Whatever. Wasn’t like I’d held him hostage.

“Montana Louis Babineaux.” He extended his hand.

I took it. Beneath his intense stare, my breath hitched, each one hollower than the last. Hell, my cornrowed locs even fluttered beneath a gentle breeze. The sauna—what sauna?—no longer existed.

Wait, I needed to respond. That’s how communication worked. He’d said … Montana. So, I should’ve inserted my alias, Journey Carlson. Instead, I blurted, “Like the state?”

“Like the legend.”

A smirk threatened to hijack my face.

“Cool it, Montana.” Peaches pretended to reposition a garnish on a square plate, boasting a petty grin. “Journey never heard of you. We confirmed that already.”

His mom glanced between us, as if tickled pink by this revelation. Dang, she and Peaches were a trip. Always entertained. Virginia probed, “You’re not familiar with … Big Sky—”

“C’mon now, Momma, you know it’s not Big Sky Country, like Montana is known for. It’s Big—”

“Country.” Virginia scowled. “My bébé’s a businessman, not some fool with a toothless mouth emptier than a daiquiri machine after Fat Tuesday. Big Country, humph.”

While they argued playfully, I picked up two plates. Lémon Poivre Wings, Butter Me Down Cornbread, and a rib basket—its ridiculous name I needed to memorize.

Ms. Peaches stepped into my path. All hips and smiles. “You forgot to tell him your name.”

My gimme-a-break grin didn’t help me slip past her.

“Don’t pin the woman in.” Montana sighed. “She might quit, Auntie Peaches. Her name is Journey. Says so on her name tag.”

Virginia placed her hand on her hip. “If Journey quits, it’s your fault, Montana. Got her over here speechless, giving her the same sweltering look your pa—”

“Momma.” The playfulness vanished, and tension sharpened his tone. In two strides, he dominated the space between us, stealing the plates from my hand. “Which table?”

“Uh …” I clung to the rib basket.

“Relax.” Montana lowered his voice. “You looked even cuter trying to wrestle me out of my shirt.”

My glare said, Did not!

He tilted his head; smirk loaded with charm and zero shame. “I get it, though. I’ll stop flirting now that I know you work here. Okay?” He stared into my eyes as if drowning in the mahogany brown of them.

Blink, Zuri, blink!

“You don’t tell me a table, Journey”—he backed toward the door and effortlessly pushed through with his shoulder—“these two will eat you alive trying to get you to marry me and save my soul.”

“From all the dirty groupies,” Peaches muttered as the door swooshed shut behind us.

“You still haven’t told me which table,” he said.

I’d forgotten. Dang. What was wrong with me? I never made mistakes. In my world, a slip-up wasn’t a salty beignet or forgetting a side of fries—it was pushing the wrong med, the wrong dose. A mistake in the ER didn’t end with an apology; it ended with a coffin.

I searched my mind for what I’d read on the ticket and told him a table number. “And for the record, Mr. Babineaux, nobody tried to undress you.”

“Right …” Seconds later, Montana placed the plates and rib basket on the table, then turned to me. His stance relaxed. His broad shoulders shielded the embarrassment on my face that I doubted Miss Diana Ross—my twenty-pound wig—could accomplish.

“Um … so … you’re my boss, technically.” I began.

“I’m not—”

“Yes. You. Are. This place has a third owner. One of Virginia’s sons. You.” My hand dropped on my hip. Staring. Again. At the delicious smear. The muscles. “Uh, I guess since you play baseball, Dollar General’s three-pack won’t cut it?”

He chuckled. “Please don’t.”

“Okay, fine. You’re rich.” I wasn’t always poor. Student loans tried, but I hadn’t hit rock bottom until I escaped my life.

He smirked as if he understood my pain and my shirt obsession. “Listen, I’m a silent partner. Not your boss, bébé.”

Bébé? Mm-hmm. What happened to no flirting?

He sniffed a laugh. “You’ve got that awkward Black—”

“No—”

“Girl Energy. Adorable.”

Snark activated. “Awe. Adorable? Thanks, Boss Man.”

His deep-set eyes scanned me. “You an Atlanta Braves fan?”

“I’m a fan of nuns. Celibate nuns.” I shifted in my Mary Janes. “No shirt. Got it. Anyway, I’m your employee. I’ll stay outta your lane.” Stay outta mine.

I strutted away with all the sass I could muster. And yes, I glanced back. Montana’s smolder would boost my ego for a decade. Might warm my bed until my son graduated from high school or Edwin found us.