“Wow. These things are heavy.” Kayla lifts our chained hands up and down a few times and I move my wrist to accommodate the movement.

They really are surprisingly heavy.

I turn the steel manacle around my wrist. “And uncomfortable.”

Kayla mutters, “I guess handcuffs aren’t supposed to be cozy.”

We drop our wrists and let them hang heavily at our sides. The back of my hand brushes the back of Kayla’s hand and her soft skin instantly warms against mine.

We glance at each other and jerk away like the touch is searing hot. I bite back a smile. If touching me for a split second has her this agitated, then I’d hate to think how she’s going to feel after being handcuffed to me for an hour—or longer. I might be hauling a blonde mess of irritation back to Eddie’s office later.

Taking a step back, Eddie looks us over with a raised brow. “You two look like downright criminals.”

I say, “Gee, thanks.”

“So now what?” Kayla asks.

“Now,” Eddie says, “I give you directions to the letter.”

He hands her a small white envelope. She reaches for it with her cuffed hand, aggressively yanking my wrist up.

“Easy,” I say as the handcuffs whack against my wrist.

She crinkles her nose in apology. “Sorry.” Then she carefully moves her bound wrist as she pulls a piece of paper from the white envelope. She reads aloud, “ ‘The blue suitcase in the hall closet,’ ” then looks at Eddie. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “I just hand out the papers.”

“The suitcase in the hall closet?” I frown. “That’s not directions. That’s like… a clue. Does he mean the hall closet in his house?”

“Oh! The one with all the umbrellas?” Kayla looks at Eddie expectantly.

He shrugs. “I wish I could help you folks but I honestly have no idea.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Kayla says. “I’m sure he meant the hall closet at Milly Manor.”

“Yeah. And I know for a fact Turner used to have a blue suitcase,” I say. “There was one in his garage for like ten years.”

Kayla turns to stare at me. “Why were you snooping through my father’s garage?”

“I wasn’t snooping.” I jut my chin. “I was squeezing through all his old junk so I could put the lawn mower away every other Saturday, remember?”

“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?”

“Really,” she says sharply. A beat passes. “My own father didn’t care enough about me to let me know that he was dying. And as far as the funeral is concerned, I came because I needed closure.” Her voice wavers with emotion and she clears her throat. “I was surprised to see you at the funeral—alone. From the stories I heard growing up, I assumed Daren Ackwood always traveled with a flock of large-breasted groupies.”

I grin at the superiority in her tone. “Are you jealous you were never in my flock?”

She gives me a sugar-sweet smile. “I pity all the brainless hens who were.”

I let out a small laugh. “Sure you do.” My smile fades. “But with the funeral… I didn’t exactly feel like company. So no hens for me.”

She glances at me and I look away, my chest tightening as I stare out the window. Turner and I didn’t grow close until after he and Kayla were estranged, so there’s no way she’d understand how important he was to me. Not that I’d try to explain it to her. I doubt any explanation I gave would do justice to my relationship with him anyway.

I wouldn’t know where to begin. His importance in my life grew so slowly, so quietly, that pinpointing the exact moment he became a crucial part of who I am is impossible. My first memory with James Turner was when I was eleven and I tagged along when he and my dad were golfing together. Turner accidentally hit a ball into a tree and asked me to go get it because, and I quote, he was “an old man.” I teased him for that and addressed him as Old Man Turner for the rest of the day. The name sort of stuck and I continued to call him Old Man Turner as I got older, even though he was always very youthful and energetic. I think he liked the nickname because it made him feel special. And he was.