Page 90 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

I sat at the cafe, using the rest of my laptop’s battery charge to catch up on work while I ate—all the while cursing my cast that made my typing slow and clunky.

By the time my food was gone and my coffee was on its too-sweet dregs, I had enough work done for my boss to stay off my case.

I packed up and walked the rest of the way home, passing by the pizza place on the corner, where the man once again spotted me, then dropped—literally dropped—the dough he was throwing and fled into the back of the shop.

I was about to brush that off as weird when the memory surfaced. Of telling the story to Gav, about his anger, about the way he immediately reached for his phone.

Had he… done that?

Had one of his men beaten up the pizza guy because he was creepy? Told him to stay away from me?

Maybe that should have freaked me out. It was presumptuous. It was violent. But underneath that, it was protective. We hadn’t even been involved at that point, and he’d wanted to make sure that the local pizza freak didn’t hurt me.

The warm, gooey feeling moved across my chest as I kept walking to my building.

As the elevator doors slid open onto my floor, I expected to feel the familiar wave of relief. Like just the promise of my home soothed the overwrought nerves—the loud, busy, sensory nightmare that was the city.

But all I felt as I slid my key into the lock was a sinking feeling in my gut that I could only label disappointment.

I tried to shake it off, roll my shoulders, remind myself that I had an open invitation to return. And while every bit of me wanted to run right back now, I knew I had to gather some of my things. As much as I liked being in Gav’s clothes, there were only so many times a girl could wash her panties in the sink and set them in front of a fan to dry before she had to get some fresh underwear.

So I would putz around my apartment for a bit, get my charger, pack a respectable amount of clothes—and a borderline unhinged amount of panties—and head back over.

I flicked on the light since I’d drawn all my curtains the last time I’d been home, then locked the door.

Then I fell back against the door with a shriek as a figure moved out of my bedroom.

“Don’t scream, Nugget.”

“Dad?”

He flicked on another light, his head cocked to the side, giving me a look I could only describe as ‘bashful.’

Bashful.

While I’d been worrying myself sick about what happened to him. Had been risking my own life by holding a made man in the mob captive.

He looked the same as ever—a gentle giant with hair he kept a little too long that was more gray than blond anymore and smushed down with a ratty old red baseball cap. His shirt was a little looser than usual—thanks to his new diet changes—but was the same faded national park tee I’d seen him wear since I was a child. His jeans were worn to the point of being buttery soft. And his boots were all but falling apart.

It was no wonder I never suspected that this man was sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars in storage units all around the country.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving me a careful smile.

“Hey, kiddo?” I scoffed. Then, louder, as anger replaced the fear I’d been clinging to for weeks. “Hey, kiddo? You show up here after being missing for weeks and all you can say is ‘hey, kiddo’?”

He opened his mouth to speak but I was on a roll. I didn’t get angry—at least at anyone other than myself—often. And I damn sure never yelled at anyone. But there was no denying that I was yelling right then.

“I thought you were dead! I thought you’d wandered into the woods and had some kind of episode! I’ve been worried sick for weeks. And you just show up here with a fucking ‘hey, kiddo’?” His brows shot up at the curse but he said nothing. “I’m going to need an explanation. And it better be a good one.”

It wasn’t that I wasn’t relieved to see him.

But now that I knew he was alive, I was pissed for what he’d put me through.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “I know you probably have a million questions for me. Let’s sit down. Talk it out.”

He moved over to my table, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“You have a nice little place here, Nugget,” he said as I glared at him from the door.