Page 84 of The Bronze Garza
First thing I notice upon finally seeing him, is that he’s the shirtless biker in pajama bottoms and flip-flops.
Second thing—his rock-hardeightpack and solidly defined V.
Third thing—themost breathtaking golden eyes I’ve ever seen.
Fourth thing—his golden dreads that matches those eyes.
Fifth thing—his deep-gold skin tone that blends stunningly with his dreads and eyes.
Yep, the man is freakinggolden.
And drop-dead gorgeous.
He doesn’t speak for the entire drive to a private, gated residence somewhere in Venice. Not that I could’ve replied with my duct taped mouth if he did.
Parked outside the tall, wooden gate of the residence is Monica’s car. He careens around it and swerves into an attached single-car garage.
Engine off, he grabs something from the glove compartment then hops out of the jeep and comes to open the door for me.
When he beckons me with two fingers, I shimmy across the seat to him. He holds up his hand, showing me what’s in it. A switchblade.
Understanding, I lift my hands.
Carefully, he slits the tape then peels it off my wrists. Once it’s all off, he tucks the switchblade into the waistband of his pajamas, then lifts his hand to one corner of my mouth. “Blink once for slow and steady. Twice for one go.”
His eyes are so goshdarn beautiful I can’t stop staring into them.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he flashes me a lopsided grin and says, “I know. They get me in trouble with the ladies all the time.”
I blink twice.
He rips off the tape in one go.
It hurts as much as I knew it would. But I’m familiar with the pain so I also know it will be fleeting.
“I’m Tripp.”
“Oh, the favorite son.”
With a shake of his head, he guides me out of the garage. “Tillie and that ‘favorite son’ shit.”
“Monica didn’t deny it.”
“Trust me, I’m not her favorite,” he says with a snort. “And Tillie’s just a narcissist who can’t stand not being the center of attention.”
“Can I just ask—”
“I was Netflixing in bed when I got the call, and I’m the closest to the location,” he answers before I can even finish the question. “There was no time to get dressed if I wanted to get a lock and tail on your kidnappers.”
Oh, okay. Well, that explains a lot.
He lets us through the wooden gate, which opens right into a small, cozy courtyard. Brick-stone pavement, large potted plants, shady trees, an outdoor wicker-style sofa set, and two lounge chairs.
Tillie is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofa chairs, scrolling on her phone, while Monica paces back and forth, phone pressed to her ear.
“Mom,” Tillie says when she sees us enter.
Monica stops pacing and glances up, and I can almost see the relief leave her body like fumes. “She’s here,” she speaks into the phone. “Okay”…“Okay”…“Yes, okay.”
