Chapter 10 Lachlan
LACHLAN
“This is the worst mistake of my life.” Montana dragged a massive hand over his dark brown face, his New Orleans twang thickening every syllable like molasses. His eyes rolled skyward like he was asking the saints for a sign as my McLaren Artura slid to the curb of Rodeo Drive.
“Montana, you’re walking into a jewelry store”—I raised my hands—“buying a chain. Nobody will ever know.”
He answered with a grunt. Not a we-good grunt. This was a prepare-yourself-for-a-Ted-Talk grunt.
When I handed the keys to the valet, and we stood on the curb, he put up a finger. Och. Here we go.
“First,” he said, “bought myself a chain this Christmas. Ain’t that same rookie who thought he needed to chill his Hennessy on ice.
” He shook his head like he’d just exposed a national crime.
A crime of our twenties, when we had too much money to burn.
Now? We had even more cash. And the wisdom to go with it.
I bit back a laugh. “Second?” I arched a brow as we drifted toward Bella Jewelers. “Natasha makes lists too. Never gets past the first stipulation.”
He did this little mock-serious thing, hand at his chest, a terrible falsetto for his deep voice. “Na-tasha does that too.”
“Don’t break your vocal cords,” I chuckled.
Before I could walk through the glass doors, he rounded on me. “You ain’t getting it, bruh. Lemme break it down. You picked me ‘cause you figured your boys might slip and tell their wives. Cam and Willow are on the same wavelength. After all them damn kids.”
“True.”
“Leith might let it slip to his wife … all absorbed, working on a computer.”
Damn, he knew my brothers.
“I’m not gonna go down the list. I got three brothas. You got an entire basketball team. Still, you didn’t want it to get back to Tash. I feel you.”
“Good.”
“But.”
Aye. There it was. Standing in front of a jewelry store, blocking the entrance while we hashed out my love life.
“Deep down, Lach, you came to Big Country”—he pointed to himself, doing that thing he often did.
Referring to himself in third person. Which I couldn’t hate.
The fans named him that, and he deserved it.
“I’ma help you avoid the family rumor mill.
Just not the way you expected. I got you. We gon get you out the sunken pl—”
“Don’t be a numpty. Marriage isn’t the sunken place. I’m doing this.” I started for the gold-plated doorknob.
Montana planted himself in my path. Face-to-face. His six four to my six three. “Okay. You need techniques on getting in the girl’s panti—”
“I didnae.” I cut him off so quick my brogue practically elbowed my usual voice out of the way.
“No disrespect. I saw that video.” His mouth curled. “I was proud of you. Emphasis on was. Right now, you about to shoot yourself in the damn head. If Nan comes to me, asking questions.”
I chuckled. “Montana, you’re crazy.” Then I drew in a breath, steady and sure. “I’m in love, Big Country.”
Montana blinked, then let out a slow, theatrical chuckle that sounded suspiciously of pride and confusion.
“You? In love?” he said, twang thick as the jambalaya his mom, Miss Virginia, made me in New Orleans.
“Okay. Don’t change your mind. Because then I gotta mentally prepare myself to attend your funeral.
I’m talkin’ flowers, sobbing in a suit I ain’t worn since ’09.
Telling everyone you the second-best baseball player I know. ”
“Jackie Robinson or Babe Ruth?”
“Naw. Second to me.” He strolled into Bellas.
Och. Big Country always had the last word.
With a headshake, I followed after him. The place was deserted, every bright light glittered off diamonds without the interference of people.
“For a Black man walking into a jewelry store on Rodeo?” Montana muttered. “Damn, the lack of folks about to make a brotha sweat like a po’ boy left on the dashboard.”
He wasn’t wrong. But I’d arranged this. My assistant had bought the store for two hours flat. Two doormen signed NDAs and doubled as security. The manager had relieved the attendants and signed the same document. If she let so much as a whisper leak, I’d bury their little careers six feet under.
The manager backed out of a swinging door with champagne balanced on a silver tray. She turned and froze when she saw us, nearly dropping both flutes. Money signs lit her eyes. She was expecting to sell a top-tier engagement ring. Maybe even from some pretentious lad who just became a celebrity.
Now, vows flashed in her eyes. Aye. The lass was thinking the whole set. Engagement ring. Wedding bands. A wee mansion placed on my woman’s hand.
That was a whole different ball game. One that had been in my heart since the day I met Natasha. She was sweet. Genuine. She got me in a way no one ever had.
Ignoring the manager, I cleared my throat. “From the start, Mookie Betts wrote FN in the dirt before each at bat.”
Montana pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked. “A salute to his grandfather,” he deadpanned.
“I know,” I said. “You think I didn’t? If I write Natasha’s initials on the mound—”
“You dead.” His laugh came out low, half warning, half did you forget what century you live in? “Didn’t I just mention the superfluous stress I’d endure at your funeral? You trying to get popped on Valentine’s Day? And your family …”
While I passed on sharing my childhood with the media, Montana knew my history. The crime. He’d told me about his family too.
“I’m doing it anyway.” I smirked. “After I ask Vassili for his blessing. Not saying I’ll do it on Valentines …” Yup. That was what I was saying. “He’s the kinda guy—”
“Who breaks your toes, then your legs—”
“That you gotta have a heart-to-heart with.”
Montana’s accent thickened. “Then he removes your heart.” He leaned against the glass counter, shaking his head. Pity and awe in his gaze. “You want another sistah? Say less. I’ll find you a woman don’t come from no Russian Mafia drama.”
I stepped closer to the diamonds, the weight of the choice burning in my chest. “I don’t want another woman.”
My voice dropped, gravel thick in my throat, as I stared past the glitter of rings, straight at the image of Natasha’s face. An image embedded in my mind.
“I want … Natasha Resnova to take my last name.”
The silence after hit harder than any fastball.
And Montana? For once in his life, Big Country failed to clapback.