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Since when do you take advice from that pompous windbag Tad Whittinberg? Savannah O'Brien chided herself, glancing to the left and right after turning the corner. She'd never had a car before six months ago, so when Tad had asked her how "Corvette life" was treating her, she'd admitted it had a few clunks--literally. Tad had recommended a garage on the Upper West Side. Instead of asking the name of it, she'd asked for directions.

And now you're lost, she concluded. Amazing to have lived in New York City all her life yet she had no clue where this place was. The truth was, about all she'd seen lately were her apartment in Greenwich Village and her law firm in Midtown, Fifth Avenue. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone out with anyone, let alone friends. When her mind drifted to the novel little restaurant in SoHo she and old friends used to frequent, she shook the thought off before it could become an actual memory.

Savannah had no idea what to expect of this garage, precisely because of who the recommendation had come from. Tad's mind attached importance to everything he said and did. Any grease-monkey shop became the white palace emporium if Tad Whittinberg deigned to frequent it.

Shaking her head in disgust, Savannah sat back against the stiff leather seat. Then she saw it. A sign so familiar, déjà vu reached out and grabbed her right by the heart.

Before she could give it a second thought, she yanked the steering wheel hard in that direction. Until she heard the screech of tires and at least a dozen blaring horns, her instincts ran on one-cylinder focus.

With her cheeks flushed hotly, she parked in front of the white painted, brick building, then glanced over her shoulder in chagrin at the near accident she'd caused. A few drivers gave her final, sharp rebukes with their horns.

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