Chapter 24 Zuri
zuri
. . .
The silk of the midnight-blue pantsuit clung to my curves, a smooth embrace that rivaled the beauty of the Tuileries Gardens across the street. The top dipped low, testing Montana’s self-control and mine. My heels clicked over the cobblestone sidewalk.
He wore midnight-blue trousers and a cream-white button-down, open at the chest. Someone needed a bib, all right. Me. I could gaze and salivate all night.
“How much farther?” I squinted through the outline of buildings older than the great-grandparents I’d never met. Besides, the Louvre was closed, so what would we sightsee?
“We here, bébé.” He caught my hand and spun me into his arms, cupping my bottom as if he owned me. “Anytime I’m with you? We already arrived.”
“Ah-hmm …” I hope that didn’t sound breathless.
Montana tilted my chin as the breeze carried the faint scent of rain and roses from the Tuileries Gardens. Lord, let it rain.
“You ready to fall in love, Zuri …?”
My lips parted. Took every muscle in my body not to offer a bobblehead nod. Or say, Too late.
“With this place?” he teased.
I never made love until last night. His gentle, slow strokes were all the more intimate as a glistening trail of a rogue tear streamed down my cheek. And the other things we did. Served each other? I almost rolled my eyes.
“Montana, where are we?” Paris had nondescript buildings. All stony, gray, and gargoyle architecture. When we entered the place, Wham! A speakeasy. Or a cathedral. Or museums. I had enjoyed our visit to that art gallery.
Yep, romance bloomed with every brushstroke in that gallery. Abstract Expressionism got me! Instead of paint splatter, I saw love.
A green squiggle leaned lovingly into a purple swirl for a kiss.
And the red-hot splatter? Fireworks. Those same fireworks imprinted behind my eyes while squeezed shut in ecstasy, right before Montana returned to my mouth, those thick lips glossed gorgeously in my love for him. Somebody tell me, I ain’t cray?
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.”
“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-body propaganda.” 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 to half a 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 play that 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.
This will … 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—
A throat cleared.
“Sorry,” I murmured. Caught, I proceeded, eating another bite of his food. Dang. He’d given me the rogue-tear-as-you-cry-in-ecstasy moment every Black woman craved, and I stole his shrimp and grits.
“I see how it is. You didn’t even try to back down.” Montana picked up my plate and went to the stove.
Dang, Zuri! More heat burned up my throat while he placed another heaping in front of me. “Thanks,” I deadpanned. “I can’t eat all of this.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His voice was a teasing rasp.
“Hah.” I gestured to the phone he slid onto the table. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Ezekiel did it.”
“A lawsuit?” I undertoned in disbelief.
“Hearing’s set for March 24th. Good. Give him time to find a shady therapist. Get those emotional damage receipts. Please.” He scoffed. “Only trauma that fool is gonna see is me ghosting him. Like he’s done me all my life.”
How did I convince Montana to attend court? My hand stroked his beard. “Oh, baby. He’s supposed to be someone you can trust most in this world.”
“Nah.”
“Yes, your father.”
“I trust God, Zuri! My momma. My brothas. My sis, Mad—though she’s living up to her nickname. Auntie Peaches. Some of my family. You.”
“Same.” My hand squeezed his, and the connection thrumming through our palms brought us to higher ground together. Virginia told me to be the salt. Bring him to my level. But this … us talking, growing together, softened my heart.
Besides, I doubt that’s where we should stop. We should be constantly striving. Growing. Was that her point? Once we were on the same level, we climb together.
My eyes darted to the leather jacket. The contract. Something I still believed in. Can I have more of you, Montana?
I remembered that ache in the HC&PP kitchen when I asked to get real with him, in front of a crowd. Now it was just us. My moment.
My chest heaved as I slid the plate away and scooted over on the counter until I was close enough to Montana. My legs rested over the counter, beside his obliques. His breath caught, unraveling the tension that resided in his shoulders.
The space between us felt thick and heavy. His gaze locked on mine, causing another shift.
Less tension.
My voice came out low, a tremble of emotion, laced in affection. “Montana, baby …” I swallowed, his name heavy on my tongue. “I know the sting of betrayal, the kind that comes from someone you should trust.”
His jaw tightened, eyes dark like he wanted to pull me in, but didn’t trust himself to. If Montana fell for me in the silence … let it be.
A moment later, Montana scooped me off the island countertop and carried me over to the open French doors. We sat outside on a couch, and he pulled me onto his lap, a blanket surrounding us.
Though he didn’t say it, some of the resentment he held for his father seemed to disappear.
Perhaps the ghosts of my past, standing between us, and my confession of betrayal by those I trusted, helped close the distance.
I desperately needed to believe that, because if his heart weren’t so weighed down, maybe his love for me would flourish beyond this fleeting month.
After a time, Montana spoke. “You know all about me, chère.” His palm stroked my spine, while my cheek lay in the crook of his neck. His beard tickled my forehead, the Bay rum oil scent enveloping me. “If you have any questions. Hesitation, bébé. Ask.”
“No, I don’t. You’ve been honest with me, Montana. Even your alter ego is brutally honest.”
“Okay.” That soft, firm drag of his palm never stalled. “Tell me your story, Zuri. That’s all I ask.”