Chapter 12 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Morning just kept coming, and this man, this tall, dimpled, and bearded danger to my sanity, watched me with the intensity of a lion, and I was a two-legged gazelle who’d wandered too close to his enclosure.
The way he just said my name? Took something out of me. The first time it rolled off his tongue in reverence, now it sounded of temptation and a Southern drawl.
My pulse tripped. My fingers froze over his chest, and my professionalism packed its bags. I played it cool. Gave him my best deer-in-the-headlights impression. “Huh?”
His hand dropped where my fingers rested.
Fire flashed in his eyes. Yep. That was Big Country. And he hated how I clung to propriety like a church lady clutching the last set of pearls at a Macy’s Black Friday Sale.
“Yes, Montana?” I managed, voice clinical, even though everything in me screamed, Unhand me, or don’t. I’m flexible.
“Nothing,” he grumbled.
Yippy! Montana two-pieced Big Country, and I saw a glimpse of vulnerability. Something I guessed he didn’t share in front of many women.
I stared at him, waiting for him to be open. Honest.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t quit on me now.”
Lawd. Dodger Him, a.k.a. his alter ego, sounded like my own personal workout trainer slash sinner’s temptation. And yep, Big Country had gotten back up again.
Behind him, I gulped, tightened the bandage.
He hitched.
I told myself to check the stability of the gauze, ensure the dressing lay secure, unrumpled. In reality, my fingers traced his muscles, memorized the warmth of his skin. Somewhere between clinical and something else.
Before I could straighten, Montana claimed my wrist. He brought me before him, same as on day one. “You’ve practically seen me in my birthday suit, Zuri.”
“No. I haven’t. You a lie.”
His forehead rested against mine. If his voice hadn’t rasped from pain, I might’ve ran. “Why you treat me so bad, chère?”
“Montana, I don’t.”
“You do … damn!” His deep, Southern voice went from NOLA lingo to straight Creole as he spoke under his breath, and I didn’t understand either. Minty breath teased my lips, while his forehead kissed mine. “Lemme take you to dinner.”
“No.”
“You still won’t fake date, bébé?”
“Tell me about this scar.” My thumb pressed an old hypertrophic scar—raised, tight, and warm against the smooth expanse of his chest. It ran just below his clavicle. The kind of wound that had kissed a blade. A pale memory against his warm, pecan skin.
His rough exhale made sound travel straight from that wound into my hand. “I play baseball. I got other scars. Should I hop outta these basketball shorts?”
“You shouldn’t hop at all. However, tell me first. I might let you show me … a good time. On a date.” No crossing the line, though. Montana, I’ll have to leave again …
“Washington stabbed me. Now, where you wanna go, Zuri?”
Wash wouldn’t? I chuckled, still stuck on stupid, waiting for dumb to come.
He blinked.
“Wash … your brother … your law-abiding citizen, now Honorable Judge of a brother stabbed you?”
“He was five. We were badass kids. Chère, you don’t date me … I’ma die.”
“No!” Because it will get real, and Edwin might find us! “If you die, I’m sure your alter ego has enough juice to resuscitate your arrogant behind.”
“You gotta be tired of cooking?” His deep rasp stung and tantalized at the same time.
I jumped back as if burned. He was wearing me down.
To play it off, my hand went to my hip. “Except for a new-location dinner every time Darius and I ran, I have cooked. Mind you, that’s a handful of times in four years.
So between HC&PP and Chuck E. Cheese, I met my quota for dinners out.
” I opened up bit by bit. “Besides, you’re paying me for the bandaging because you’re too spoiled to stay at a hospital. I don’t need the fake-date money.”
Screw a fake date, I craved a meaningful connection with him.
My heart desired … more than Big Country would offer.
Montana brought me between his thighs. “Sweet Cheeks.” His fingers ran through my locs, sliding lower, his tone too.
“Why …” His lips found the hollowed pulse at my throat.
“You …” More kisses mopped over my skin.
“Keep …” His warm lips tingled their way lower along my chest, nipping the swell of my breast.
“Ahem …” a voice cleared.
I stepped back so fast that if I wore heels, I’d be splinting my own broken ankle. Spinning around, I caught sight of Virginia. My hand flew to my chest as if to wipe away the trail of furious desire. “Oh, good morning.” A jungle fire lit up my cheeks. “Did you sleep well? How did …”
It’s not how it looks.
Except it resembled a Hallmark movie with less clothing.
“I slept well,” she said simply.
Ugh, Miss Virginia, please don’t hate me like Montana’s …
er, not ex. I didn’t get what Montana and Adele had going.
Okay, fine—I understood. Miss Thang’s confidence allowed her to fulfill his needs without a title.
But his mom wasn’t about to picture me at the same nudist colony.
Or was it a mosquito blood drive? Couldn’t remember the joke, but the point was clear: I was not empowered like Adele.
Still … I was here. Playing house—wait. Where had Montana’s momma been? I asked, “Is it busy at work? Have you enjoyed the dinners I left out for you?” Please don’t ask me why I didn’t call and just ask.
“You made me plates, sugar?” Virginia stopped touching a bamboo earring. “What plates?”
I hurried to the microwave drawer. I couldn’t understand why rich folks would stoop—
Oh, it made sense.
Some rich, old person, hunched over like Quasimodo, had invented this thing. Boom. A drawer for grandparents who were tired of standing on tippy-toes to reheat coffee.
That settled things. I peered into the empty drawer. “It’s always gone in the morning.” My eyes snapped to Montana. “You’re eating your momma’s dinner?”
His brows lifted. “Momma’s? Nah, bébé. Thought you catered to my high-protein diet. Wasn’t that my second dinner?”
My arms folded. “It was not.”
He held his hands up. “Forgive me.”
“For this or for temp—?” I bit my lip rather than say temptation with his momma around.
Dragging in a breath, I focused on the resilient woman who birthed this.
“I’m sorry, Miss Virginia. I figured you were still at HC&PP and wouldn’t be home for dinner, since I didn’t come in …
” Wait? Something reeked. Did she even live here? “I assumed you returned late all week.”
“Non.”
Okay. She hadn’t caught what I’d thrown. “Came home late. Here. You live here?”
Virginia burst into laughter. “Lawd have mercy. Child, walk with me.”
I did, embarrassment a clingy static against my skin.
Under her breath, Virginia muttered about a switch.
“Momma?” Montana called, still posted up on the marble island. “Whatchu say about a switch?”
“Don’t worry, m? garcon.” She softened her voice on the term of affection—my son—while we strolled toward the sweeping foyer. At the front door, framed with wrought iron and a glass wall, she slipped an arm around me. “See that there stable?”
“Yes,” I murmured, cheeks still hot.
“On the opposite side sits a little bitty cottage.” She smirked. “When Montana built this place, I laughed and told him, Non, chère. I stayed in NOLA.”
“Oh?”
“He had good intentions. Before he was born, my grandfather worked out here. Course it was a ranch. Bigger than heaven itself when I was little. They treated him like you-know-what. He loved them thoroughbreds. When the old owners’ bébés needed cash, Montana bought the land. Built this. Too lavish, I told him.”
Peaches would’ve loved this, I thought, probably painted the black iron gold or pink. But Miss Virginia preferred simplicity.
“A few years of pure grumpiness. Him. Not me.” She chuckled. “My son humbled himself. Brought me here saying, ‘Momma, I want you near me when I ain’t in LA.’ Showed me that cottage.”
Virginia’s gaze found mine, steady and piercing. “But listen,” she said, lowering her voice, intimate and serious, “don’t let him fool ya! He don’t do seconds. You’re on a different level than Montana. You make him meet you up here, understand?”
I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good, sugar. Now lemme tell you something more.” Linking my arm in hers, she gave an affectionate squeeze. “I might have called you sugar ‘cause I reckoned your name wasn’t Journey. It’s a beautiful name, but not yours. Mind if I call you Zuri?”
He told you?
She squeezed my hand. “Montana told nobody but me.”
“Okay,” I whispered, letting it sink in. “Yes, you may, Miss Virginia.”
“Thank you, Zuri. Now, I called you sugar out of habit. But I’ll be honest. You’re a salt.”
“Salt?” I blinked. Like salty? Ugh, I should’ve washed before she arrived at the hospital—
“And you are an overthinker.” She giggled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Sugar is nice. Makes medicine go down. Now salt? Salt preserves. Enhances flavor. Heals.”
Speechless, I listened to her.
“My son? He’s had plenty of sugar all his life. Sweet things melt under fire. You?” She looked deeply at me, and I swore she glimpsed my soul soften. “You ground him. You last.”
My chest tightened. Nobody ever called me that. Professors had encouraged me. Edwin had placed me in the position to become chief resident—for his own illegal reasons.
Virginia leaned in with a teasing Creole cadence. “And lemme tell you something, Zuri. My boy’s fun. He’s gone try to sweep you up, keep you laughing. Get you distracted. Don’t let him fool you, non. Set the rules, dahlin’.”
I realized how much trust I must feel to talk with her like this. Virginia’s warmth, her playful jabs, the way she opened up, letting Creole slip into the conversation. I finally fit in.
“And, salt,”—she winked—“Montana will rise to meet you where you stand. Despite how long it might take him, don’t you forget, you family now. Drive my boy crazy on the way.”
Warmth fluttered into my chest. This sensation? Acceptance and trust. She hadn’t brought me here just to show me the cottage Darius and I should’ve stayed at.
Or tell a story about her grandfather, their land, their legacy. She’d told me about the real Montana who appeared when Big Country bowed.
She spoke to me like a mother would. Something some children might neglect.
But me?
God, this could be my family … I almost smiled. Almost lifted a prayer, but Montana’s shouting pierced the silence. Furious and sharper than a scalpel.
“LaShawn, damn! Don’t you tell me my father is suing me.”
Virginia’s arm, looped in mine, tightened, as if she needed help to stand. After a beat, I spoke. “Did he just say he’s being sued … by his own father?”