“Oh yeah.” She turns back to Eddie. “So what are we supposed to do, then? Just go grab the letter, then the money, and then come back to your office so you can unlock these things?” She jiggles the cuffs.
“Yep.” Eddie holds up a set of small handcuff keys. “I’ll be here until five p.m.”
“Oh we’ll be back long before then,” I say.
“Definitely,” Kayla adds and we hurriedly exit the good lawyer’s office.
It’s not until we’re standing on the sidewalk, in the bright light of day, that the true oddness of our situation sets in.
Everyone walking past us, or seated across the street at the café, or peering out through store windows, turns to stare at the handcuffed couple standing outside the lawyer’s office.
We really do look like criminals. And with Kayla wearing that tight skirt and those high heels, we look like sexy criminals, which only draws more eyes.
Looking her over more closely, I notice she’s wearing the exact same clothes and shoes she had on yesterday. There’s a small stitch on her shirt where it’s been mended and her heels are dirty and scuffed.
Huh. Not the designer outfit I’d expect a spoiled princess to sport, especially not two days in a row. It doesn’t really fall in line with my idea of a trust fund baby.
“Everyone is staring at us,” Kayla murmurs as a faint blush spreads over her cheeks. She turns away from the onlookers and faces me, but steps so close to my chest she’s nearly buried in it.
I look down at her and cock my head. Hmm. Not the reaction of a diva beauty queen. Not at all. Her modest behavior is almost… endearing. And very confusing.
“Yeah…” I say slowly. “Well you are wearing high heels and handcuffs. You look downright sinful.”
She looks up and her mouth falls open. “Me? What about you?”
“Trust me.” I watch a group of construction workers stop what they’re doing as they eye Kayla’s ass. “No one is looking at me.” A trio of women seated at the café across the street see me and immediately start to whisper. Some scandals just don’t die. “Okay. Maybe a few people are looking at me.”
She sees the construction guys and makes an annoyed noise before stepping even closer to me. The scent of coconut fills my nostrils and a vision of rubbing coconut oil all over her body suddenly pops into my head. I try to push it away, but then she leans in, pressing her shoulder and hip against me, and the vision becomes much more explicit.
I start to grow hard against her soft body—until I see her nervously bite her lip and furrow her brow at the construction workers, and my thoughts return to reality.
She’s clearly uncomfortable with those guys checking her out, and the insecurity in her eyes tugs at something strong and unfamiliar inside me.
“Good heavens!” I hear.
An elderly couple walks past us, looking horrified when they see the glinting metal binding us together, and the old woman’s mouth drops open.
I smile at them reassuringly and explain. “We’re not felons,” I say, shaking my head. “We handcuffed ourselves together on purpose.” They look even more horrified. “Not for a kinky reason,” I quickly add. “For money.”
Kayla mutters, “Please stop talking.”
The couple hurries past us, tsking and shaking their heads as they move down the sidewalk, and I turn to Kayla. “Can you believe that? They didn’t even try to hide their judgment.”
“Gee, I wonder why.” She glowers at me. “Let’s just go so we’re no longer standing on display for the whole town.” She looks around. “Where’s that pretentious car of yours?”
“My car is not pretentious.”
She lifts a brow.
“Okay. My car is a little pretentious,” I concede. “But it’s a good car.” I think about poor Monique being towed away from me. “A sweet car. A beautiful, loyal, loving vehicle that deserves to be treated nicely.”
She grimaces. “You’re being kind of weird about your car.”
“I know.” I nod with a sigh. “I have attachment issues.”
“Clearly,” she says. “So where is it?”
“My car? Uh…” Good question. “My car is far away. Far, far away.” Poor thing. “It would take a very long time to walk to it.” Wherever it is. “Let’s use your car,” I suggest with a grin.
She hesitates and for a second I think she’s going to argue, but then she says, “Fine,” and digs around in her purse.
Pulling out her keys, she leads me by the wrist down the sidewalk and to the nearest parking lot, pulling me behind her like I’m a dog on a leash. She walks me to the back of the parking lot and over to a small green car covered in scratches, dents, and rust.
Not the vehicle I pictured Kayla Turner driving.
I expected a Cadillac. Or at least something with nice rims and tinted windows. Nothing about Kayla’s appearance or possessions or behavior makes sense anymore.
“Don’t judge,” she says as she unlocks the doors.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You’re worse than that couple back there. I can feel the judgment rolling off of you,” she says bitterly. “Not everyone can afford to speed around in a Porsche.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I know.”
All too well.
She heads for the driver’s side as I head for the passenger’s side and we grunt as the handcuffs pull tight against our wrists as we move in opposite directions.
She sighs in frustration. “Okay. Let’s not be dumb about this. Why don’t you get in on the driver’s side and climb over to the passenger seat. Then I can get in behind you and drive.”
Heading to the driver’s door, I duck inside the car and awkwardly crawl over the center console, my elbows and knees knocking into the dashboard.
“Ow.”
“Watch it.”
“I can’t fit—”
“Ugh. Quit yanking my wrist.”
“Quit yanking my wrist.”
Her car is a disaster. Books. Socks. Bottles of hair care products. There’s crap everywhere. I carefully wade through the minefield of girl mess until I reach the other side. Then, folding my body up like an accordion, I finally manage to squeeze down into the passenger seat.
Kayla climbs in after me and says, “Real smooth.”
I flex my jaw. “I’m six feet tall and your car is the size of a marshmallow. The fact that I fit inside it at all is a miracle, let alone defeating the center console obstacle course you have set up here. What is this, a water bottle?” I hold up a giant plastic thermos. “It’s the size of a sink.” I point to the many other items she has crammed into the console cup holders draped over the seats. Sunglasses. A nursing uniform. A pair of sandals. A diner name tag. “What’s happening here?” I say. “Are you undercover? Suffering from multiple identities?”
She points at me. “Lay off my mess. I just drove eighteen hundred miles cross-country and didn’t plan to have any passengers. If you have a problem with the contents of my ‘marshmallow’ car then we can always crawl into your pretentious little Porsche.” She arches an eyebrow. “What’s it going to be, cowboy?”
“Cowboy?” I pull back. “Well that just makes no sense at all. It’s not like I was yee-hawing or tipping my hat at you.”
She moves to exit the car. “Pretentious Porsche it is.”
“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands, yanking her attached wrist up with mine. “I’m sorry. Your messy car is perfectly fine. I happen to be a big fan of…” I look around at the clutter. “Granola bar wrappers and packing tape.” Her eyes narrow and I flash her a broad smile. “I’m kidding. Now would you please just drive?” She doesn’t move so I lift our cuffs and merrily say, “The sooner we get the inheritance the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”
She starts the car.
I hold my wrist by the steering wheel as Kayla uses both hands to back out of the parking spot. She shifts into gear and pulls out onto the main road before lowering her cuffed wrist to the center console and driving with one hand. I place my attached wrist beside hers as we drive in silence. Her hand looks small and delicate next to mine.
“So…” I say, feeling the need to make conversation and break the tension from the tangible annoyance she feels toward me. “It was a beautiful funeral.”
She inhales. “I guess.”
“I was kind of surprised to see you there.”
She keeps her eyes on the road. “Why? He was my father.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but you didn’t bother to visit him when he was sick, as far as I know, so I just figured you wouldn’t bother with the funeral either.”
She cuts her eyes to mine and something flashes in their blue depths. Something vulnerable and hurt. “I didn’t bother to visit because my father didn’t bother to tell me he was sick.” Just as quickly as it appeared, the spark of emotion melts into bitterness and she glares back at the road.
I furrow my brow. “Really?”