Page 39 of The Right Garza
Placing my hand to my stomach, I grit out, “Calm. The fuck. Down. It’s not happening.Neverhappening. Not only is he your ex’s brother, he’s your friend’s ex. So just…stop freaking fluttering, okay?Chill.”
Trent returns in a few minutes with a small, black pouch.
“You didn’t leave with that,” I state the obvious. “What’s in it?”
“Video footage.”
“Oooh,” I say, reaching for it.
He slaps my hand away.
“Come on, seriously? You’re really not gonna let me see who it is?”
“Nope.”
“That’s hardly fair, considering I left the comfort of my pajamas to keep your crappy company. You don’t even have snacks.”
When he leans across my lap to put the pouch in the glove compartment, the flutters in my belly go berserk. I hold my breath.
“Just gonna have to read the tabloids like everyone else,” he says as he pulls back and begins buckling his seatbelt.
“Asshat,” I grumble in an effort the cover up the quiet rush of breath that leaves me.Oh, boy.This is not good.“Call someone else the next time you’re bored on the job.”
He shifts into gear pulls out, cool and calm as ever, while I’m over here damn near out of breath and on the verge of panicking. “Okay, what do you wanna eat?” he asks.
“Um, fish tacos.”
“Food truck?”
“Uh-huh.”
Even on a weeknight, several food trucks are parked when we get there. String lights crisscross above our heads and an amalgamation of delicious aromas float on the warm night air.
As we walk to the truck we want to order from, I broach, “Oh, so…I forgot tell you. But Maggie’s staying with me for a bit.”
Better to just rip it off like a band-aid, right?
“What do you mean?”
“At the condo. With me,” I say, wincing as if I expect him to smack me on the back of the head. “She was going to rent a place to avoid the commute back and forth from Bakersfield, so I told her she could stay with me. I mean, there’s plenty of space.”
He rolls his lips as we reach the food truck, narrowing his gaze at the menu. I watch his jawline intently for signs of irritation but find none. “Just fish tacos?” he asks.
“And a diet coke.”
“Trent, my man!” the heavyweight cook inside the truck exclaims. He holds out a plastic-gloved fist and Trent bumps it. “What can I get you for?”
“Lemme get an order of fish tacos, a creole veggie bowl, diet coke, and a bottled water.”
The man shoots a gun-finger at him. “Got it.”
Trent stuffs his hands into his front pockets and looks down at me as we wait, and his sudden attention on me makes my belly flip.
I shift on my heels. “It’s fine that Maggie’s staying at the condo, right?”
He just shakes his head at me. “Don’t even know why I’m surprised. You never were good at following rules.”
“That—” I start to defend, but then I break off and shrug. “Well, that’s true.”
