Suddenly I felt like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. But instead of dodging bullets, I was dodging 115-mph tennis balls shooting from her lips. Just then, Quinton appeared.

“Valencia, so nice of you to drop by…again…without calling. By now I’m sure you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Montana,” he said, rubbing my arm. “An incredible woman who afforded me the pleasure of sharing what turned out to be an unforgettable day. And Montana, by now I’m sure you’ve had the”—pausing to carefully select his words—“displeasureof meeting my spoiled daughter, who was born with a silver foot in her mouth.”

Shocked but gratified, I took great pleasure in seeing her face crack like a crash test dummy flying headfirst through the windshield. She had won the battle but I had won the war. Match goes to Montana Moore.

“Now, Valencia, if you will excuse us.”

Turning and rolling her eyes, she walked away huffing and puffing like someone had just taken her Barbie. C-Ya!

“Whatever she said, which I’m sure was inappropriate, please accept my apology.”

“Apology accepted.” I sighed. A man that knew how to gracefully put an opposing woman in check was refreshing, even if it was his own daughter. “So, did you get a chance to freshen up?”

“No, I was looking for the guest bedroom and got lost.”

“It won’t take long before you learn your way.”

It won’t take long for me to learn the way? He’s doing it again, dropping hints.

“I’ll wait for you in the den, which is down the hall this way, just left of the staircase. And the guest room is down the hall that way—”

“I know, third door to the right. Thanks.”

“But before you freshen up, I like to give you something.” He handed me a long, black, velvet-covered jewelry box. My heart stopped.

“What is it?”

“It’s something for you to wear after you freshen up.”

“What is it?”

“Open it up and see for yourself.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, Montana.”

“Okay,” I said, like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal , thinking that behind door number one could be a…diamond tennis bracelet? It was a diamond-studded tennis bracelet. And not just any tennis bracelet, but one that looked like it had been hijacked from Elizabeth Taylor’s personal collection.

“Quinton! Oh my God!”

“You like it?”

Do I like it? Thinking to myself, there’s not a woman on earth that would not only love it, but chop off her good arm to have it just so she could wear it on the one remaining luckiest one arm in the world.

“Yes. I like it! Whose is it?” I answered, knowing it couldn’t be mine.

“It’s yours.” Imagine my head making yet another 360-degree turn.

“Mine?”

“Yours.”

“But, why?”

“Why not?”