Perfect Kind of Trouble

  I’ve spent the past few years taking care of my mother instead of myself, and the past few months just trying to scrape by. The last thing I need is another complication.

  I don’t have anything in my life figured out. But I have a clean slate. It’s a dirt-poor slate, wandering aimlessly through the Arizona desert, but it’s mine to start over with and throwing a guy into the mix won’t do me any good.

  I need to get my life in order and figure out what my future holds before I even think about getting involved with someone. And while meaningless sex might work for some people—probably people like Daren—it’s not my style. But oh how I wish it were because damn. It felt good to be touched.

  I reach Mr. Perkins’s office and quickly park before climbing out of the car in my high heels.

  The inheritance really could be only twenty dollars—or less—and spending an afternoon chained to Daren Ackwood to find it could be a complete waste of time, not to mention horribly awkward given our romantic encounter last night, but it’s worth a shot. Because if it turns out to be a substantial amount of money, everything could change.

  Not only could I go back to nursing school, but I could afford a decent apartment and buy myself some time to find a new job—one where my boss isn’t demanding I work for free or flash him in order to pay off my mother’s debt.

  Ugh. My life can really only go uphill from where I’m at.

  I know money can’t buy happiness, and I believe that. But it would be nice to be out from under Big Joe’s threatening thumb. And sleeping in a cockroach-free apartment while eating regular hot meals wouldn’t be bad either.

  I hurry down the sidewalk toward Mr. Perkins’s office, tripping a little in my shoes. Maybe wearing the skirt and heels again wasn’t such a great idea. But I wanted to look professional and responsible, and the gray dress is too hot and the only other pair of shoes I own are my beat-up sneakers from last night. I didn’t think a pencil skirt and a pair of dirty sneakers really said I can be trusted with my deceased father’s money. So I went with the pumps.

  I wobble as my shoe catches on a small pebble and curse under my breath.

  High heels really are a bitch.

  Up ahead, I see Daren round a corner and hurry toward the office, now just a few yards down the sidewalk. I relax a little, knowing he’s not there yet. As we near each other, my stomach fills with butterflies. I don’t know what I’m more anxious about—the inheritance or seeing Daren.

  We reach Eddie’s door at the same time.

  “Good morning.” He smiles broadly.

  “Morning,” I respond with a cheerful smile of my own.

  Our smiles are exaggerated, like we’re trying to prove just how “okay” we are with the thing that never happened last night. Then our eyes meet in brief a clash of lust, and tension fills the air.

  Daren is the first to break it. “So. You ready to do this?”

  “I am,” I say.

  The tension returns, but this time it’s laced with nervousness. We’re about to lock ourselves together. For money. The morning after we dry humped each other against a bar. It’s nothing less than weird and desperate. Which begs the question, why is Daren doing this?

  I know why I’m subjecting myself to this craziness but I’m still not sure why Daren has agreed—especially without knowing how much money is at stake. Is he in it for the thrill? Is he just bored?

  Whatever his reasons are, I’m grateful.

  We enter the office and Eddie looks up from his messy desk, his glasses perched on his shiny head. Today he’s wearing a yellow button-up shirt with a plaid bow tie to match his plaid pants. The look suits him.

  “You’ve returned,” he says brightly, standing to greet us. “I guess this means you’ve come to a decision about Mr. Turner’s letter?”

  “We have,” I say.

  Daren nods. “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” Eddie clasps his hands together. “What have you decided?”

  Daren and I exchange an anxious look. My stomach does a flip-flop, afraid he’s going to change his mind, but then he gives me a subtle nod and I nod back.

  We turn to face Eddie, hold out our wrists, and at the same time say, “Cuff us.”

  10

  Daren

  When I fantasize about being handcuffed to a hot blonde, there’s usually not a balding lawyer and a last will and testament involved. But standing in Eddie’s cluttered office with Kayla at my side, I realize that perhaps I haven’t been dreaming big enough. Because unlike my other fantasies this one might end with a few dollars in my pocket—if I can handle being handcuffed to Kayla all day without touching her.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her last night. I don’t regret it—not in the slightest—but I still shouldn’t have done it. I knew the moment she pulled away what a mistake it was. Because I cared.

  I cared that she changed her mind and no longer wanted my hands on her. I cared that she politely rejected me. I took it personally, and I never take anything girl-related personally.

  My first instinct was to do better, for Christ’s sake. To do better and earn her approval; win her affections.

  I’ve made a point in life not to seek out the admiration of any one woman. Women in general, sure. I want females as a whole to like me and enjoy my company—and I strive to achieve just that. But I don’t work for the approval of any one specific girl. Not ever.

  I’ve learned the hard way that wanting, or working, for such a thing is useless, and will leave me burned.

  I really hope my gut reaction to Kayla pulling out of my arms last night was a momentary weakness and nothing more.

  Looking at her now, as we stand in Eddie’s office, I can’t help but think back to how she felt in my arms, all supple and needy. God, she was hot. And she was honestly into it too, like a hungry wolf with a slab of meat as she moaned and wriggled against me.

  There’s a difference between the whimper of a woman who’s just having fun and the sound of a woman starving for pleasure. And Kayla Turner needs to be pleased. Badly.

  But not by me, apparently. She probably thinks she’s too good for me. And in reality, she is. But the truth still stings.

  Eddie looks down at our outstretched wrists and chuckles. “Well I’m pleased to hear that.” He waves our hands down. “You can relax, though. First I need you to sign some documents.” Slipping on his glasses, he moves around his desk and starts fumbling through papers. “Now where… did I put… those documents from yesterday…?”

  I eye the familiar pile of papers stacked behind his desk. “On the filing cabinet.”

  Eddie shuffles over to the cabinet and scoops up the folder. “Aha.”

  As he silently reads through it, I slide my eyes to Kayla. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek knot at the base of her neck, with little wisps falling around her face. She nervously bites her lip as she watches Eddie, and the sting of rejection returns to my veins.

  Oh, she’s good. Playing up the neglected-daughter act for Eddie just like she tried to play me last night. I still can’t believe she wanted to take the entire inheritance for herself. I’m broke, she said with those pouty blue eyes of hers. Yeah right. “Broke” probably means she can’t afford to summer in Europe or buy herself a new yacht. That trust fund of hers must be running low.

  Well that’s just too bad. I don’t care how attractive—or how hot a kisser—Kayla is. She’s not keeping half of the inheritance Turner left to me. She didn’t even try to be a part of his life while he was alive, for Christ’s sake. Why the hell should she get to benefit from his wealth now?

  From what I hear, she and her mother are used to living the high life with all of Turner’s money so Kayla would probably just blow the inheritance on something stupid, like a bedazzled Jet Ski or a pony. I, on the other hand, actually need the money. So when we find it, I’m keeping every last penny.

  I look at her and try to solidify my resolve. I deserve that money. I do.

  “There are a few stipulatio
ns in Mr. Turner’s will,” Eddie says when he’s done scanning the page. “The biggest being that I cannot unlock the handcuffs until you find the inheritance.” He clears his throat and reads, “ ‘Arrangements have been made with a handful of local townspeople to help Kayla and Daren complete their quest. If any of these helpers catch Kayla and Daren without the handcuffs on, they have been instructed to report to Eddie immediately.’ ”

  “Seriously?” Kayla says.

  “Seriously,” he says.

  “Local townie spies.” I purse my lips. “Fantastic.”

  “ ‘If Daren and Kayla are caught without the handcuffs on and reported, they automatically forfeit their inheritance and the money will then be donated to the charities listed on page seven of this form… ’ ” Eddie skims the remainder of the page then pushes his glasses farther up his nose as he eyes us. “Are you two sure about this?”

  I look at Kayla. She’d better be sure. I try to flash her one of my killer smiles—the kind that says you can trust me with your hopes and dreams and body—but I’m too anxious to pull it off. Partly because I’m still not over the fact that she doesn’t trust me with her body, but mostly because the possibility of having money in my pocket by the end of the day is just too important. My future, or lack thereof, is riding on Kayla’s cooperation.

  Fortunately, her gold-digging roots have bred her to be just greedy enough to agree to this plan because she nods at Eddie without glancing at me.

  “Absolutely,” she says with complete confidence.

  “Well all right then.” Eddie rummages through the papers on his desk and comes up with a large, flat manila envelope. Opening the envelope, he pulls out a set of handcuffs. Not the fuzzy kind used in the bedroom, but honest-to-God police-grade handcuffs made of steel. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t hard-core manacles.

  Kayla’s eyes widen. “Those look… real.”

  Eddie nods. “They are.”

  She shakes her head. “Of course my father couldn’t pick out a set of cushiony handcuffs. He had to choose the same kind of handcuffs that felons get marched to prison in.”

  Eddie wrinkles his nose at the cuffs. “It does seem a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”

  I sigh. “Well at least we won’t have to wear them for very long.”

  Kayla nods. “Yeah. Thank God it will only be a few hours.” She glances at me and adds, “Tops.”

  “Right.” I nod, though I can’t imagine it taking us even an hour.

  Eddie hands us each a pen. “I just need you both to sign here.” He points to a paper that looks identical to the one we signed yesterday. “But this time sign saying you agree to the terms of the will and accept the offer.”

  We take turns. For a moment, I feel like I’m signing my life away, but my nervousness is short-lived as I think about the overwhelming medical bills waiting for me at the county hospital and the fate of my living situation come the near future. I quickly scrawl out my name.

  Kayla signs her name beside mine with the penmanship of an artist, making my signature look like a manic toddler got hold of a ball-point pen. I watch her curl the end of the r in her last name. Handwriting shouldn’t be that pretty.

  “All right.” Eddie puts the pens away and looks at us. “Are you ready?”

  I hold out my left wrist while Kayla holds out her right, and we watch in silence as Eddie slides the handcuffs over our hands and locks them closed with a few click-click-clicks. He’s careful to leave enough room for us to move our wrists, but the cuffs are still pretty tight.

  “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 s
candals 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.