Page 28 of Booked for Kidnapping

I would have a great deal of juggling to do in my future, but I’d figure something out. I always did. Bradley’s willingness to bend around the life I’d made for myself helped.

I’d started as a bodyguard, and while I saw myself guarding Bradley’s back in the future, I’d be doing it for reasons other than a contract and a paycheck.

“Thank you, Senator.”

“You’re welcome. This is something I can do, so I will. I’ll also earn some serious points with my wife at the same time.”

“Always a good thing.”

“Yes. Keeping our spouses pleased is definitely an ongoing job. You’ll learn that soon enough. I appreciate you taking the time to teach me about what libraries need, how they operate, and what I can do to help.” The senator took a few moments to eye my plate, which had been reduced to a few scraps of food and a stray pepper or two. “Also, thank you for not testing my ability to eat that. I don’t know if I would have survived your preferred spice level.”

I grinned. “Bradley tried eating food the way I like it, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s very lucky to have survived the experience. I’ve started a training program so he, too, can enjoy spicy food one day.”

“I’ll send him a sympathy card,” the senator quipped.

I checked the time on my phone to discover a fretting Bradley had sent several texts whining over how long business dinners could take. “And speaking of which, it seems my fiancé has developed separation anxiety.”

“That would be my cue to pay the bill and take you home. But seriously, thank you for meeting with me. I’ve learned a lot.”

So had I. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming.”

We left the restaurant and waded into the chaos of New York traffic. For the late hour, everyone and their cousin was out and about, shipping companies had decided to route their goods through the city rather than bypassing it, and for some reason I couldn’t fathom, someone had thought it had been a good idea to haul a truck full of live goats through a city. No, not just through a city, right down Broadway.

The driver must have gotten lost, likely fresh out of the Lincoln Tunnel, ending up around 8th Avenue before getting turned around onto Broadway in a haphazard attempt to get back to a highway. I’d seen plenty of lost drivers end up on 8th Avenue.

Goats on Broadway was new, but it could have been worse.

They could have reached Times Square.

Everything would have been fine if the goats hadn’t figured out how to unlock the gate and let themselves out, resulting in stopped traffic and general chaos. To complicate matters, the scattered goats made certain we wouldn’t be going anywhere until they were contained.

“We might be here all night,” I observed, grinning at the mass of New Yorkers attempting to catch the goats making even more of a mess of things. While most cussed and bitched over the delays, the New Yorkers did as New Yorkers did, pitching in to help while moaning about the need to inconvenience themselves for somebody else.

The senator put his SUV into park and killed the engine, joining the growing number of drivers opting to save gas rather than add to New York’s ever-growing smog problems. He took out his phone and began taking pictures of the rampaging goats. “My wife might question my sanity if I tell her about these goats without providing picture evidence.”

“Pictures or it didn’t happen does seem to be a trendy thing as of late.” I joined him in taking pictures of the latest threat to New York traffic. “As far as delays go, they’re pretty cute.”

I would have to apologize to my fluffy goddess later, especially if I lucked out and got to pet some goats. Of the farm animals I’d worked with, I’d liked the goats.

They lived life to the fullest.

Senator Westonhaus chuckled. “These are absolutely ferocious beasts. They’ll have to call in the army to handle a problem of this scale. It might be classified as a national disaster. A state of emergency. The goats have stormed the streets. New York might fall to this threat.”

I snorted at the senator’s quipping—and my New York pride kicked in, demanding I prove New Yorkers would never be defeated by a bunch of goats. “I feel we won’t be sufficiently New Yorker if we don’t get out and at least look like we’re ready to wrangle goats.”

“You’re absolutely right, and I’m not even a New Yorker. Crutches or cane?”

“The cane, please. Thank you.”

Senator Westonhaus got out and went to the back to retrieve my cane while I slid out of the vehicle, careful to keep from abusing my healing foot. Once armed with my cane, I observed the goats, which created adorable mayhem, as they had a heavy interest in accepting attention from anyone who’d give them the time of day.

The New Yorkers would be even more of a threat to traffic than the animals, and I was willing to bet half of them had never stepped foot on a farm in their lives. I’d been to enough farms to understand goats could be little devils, and a good number of them needed to have pool noodles shoved over their horns to keep them from being a menace.

I expected there’d be injuries before the goats were wrangled, and I’d do my best to avoid being one of the injured.

With my luck, I’d be back to the body shop to make sure I hadn’t caught some form of disease from the goats.