Page 41 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Gavino sat beside me, his gaze focused out the window, watching a man walking a goose on a leash.

“He’s got shoes on.”

“What?”

“The goose. He has shoes on.”

I had to half-lean over him to see and, sure enough, there were little nylon shoes on its flappy feet.

“Okay. That’s really cute,” I declared.

Making the decision to look at him while I said that was a big mistake, though.

We were way too close, faces just a few inches apart. That spicy scent of him overwhelmed my senses, making my chest tighten. I mean, it had to be the scent that made it do that. Not the way his gaze seemed to flick to my lips, then back. Nope. It couldn’t be that.

Then, to make matters worse, the driver slammed on the brakes while I was still kneeling on the seat and leaning over Gavino.

I crashed into him, my face smashing into his shoulder, and my cast, well, slamming into his crotch.

I heard his breath rush out of him, then a harsh curse escape his lips.

“Sorry, boss,” the driver called. “Fucking e-bike.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I said, shifting back into my seat and shooting him a wince. “Are you okay?”

Gavino leaned his head back on the seat, taking a few deep breaths. “Yeah,” he declared, but he didn’t sound overly convincing.

“I’ll, um, just keep myself over here,” I said, reaching to clip my belt.

It wasn’t a long ride to the garage, but the city traffic was thick enough to make the drive stretch to over half an hour.

We’d opted to take my car since Gavino said he hadn’t even turned his over in longer than he could remember. Which was nuts. The cost of garage parking in the city was astronomical. To just have a car sitting there never getting used was such a waste of money. I mean, I didn’t use mine super often, but I needed it each time my father came to the East Coast because he refused to drive into the city, so I did the drive.

When we made it to my little beat-up old crossover, we all climbed out. The driver immediately went to remove Gavino’s luggage, but when I reached for my own, Gavino stepped in front of me and lifted them out himself, both men situating them in the trunk while I stood there, shifting my feet.

“Need anything else, boss?” the driver asked once he slammed both trunks.

“Nope. That’s it. Thanks.”

We stood there silently, watching the driver get in his car and pull off.

“Ready?”

“Well, that depends,” I said.

“On?”

“What kind of passenger you are,” I said. “Because I’m about to have some major feelings about the GWB, and your backseat driving is not going to help.”

“You have an issue with bridges?”

“No. I have an issue with the GWB.” Though I had been noticing that same stomach clench on smaller bridges in the past year or so. Maybe because I didn’t drive over them as much as I had back when I was in the cab with my father. And the more I avoided things, the more my anxiety about them grew.

“I can drive.”

“You don’t drive.”

“I drive. I just don’t do it often. But I’ve never had an issue with the bridge.”