Page 86 of Sin Bin

The oven timer dings, letting us know it’s preheated, and Wagner sprinkles sliced jalapeños on a tray of cornbread batter before setting it on the middle rack. I give the pot on the stove a stir. “This smells really good.”

My statement doesn’t require a reply, and DuttonWagner is definitely a man of few words, but I’m a little surprised he doesn’t even look in my direction until I realize that his face is glued to his phone, and he’s wearing a dopey grin. He practically has hearts in his eyes. This is too good. I have to give him shit for it. There’s like a rule mandating it, or something.

“Whoa, Wagner, is your face broken? What happened to your mouth? Why is it turned up like that? Wait. Are you smiling?”

“Fuck you,” he mutters, flipping double birds in the air. It’s his signature move, but he must be off his game tonight because when he brings his right hand up, he bumps his phone and it falls off the edge of the counter.

I swipe it before it hits the floor and set it safely back in the center of the island. But when I do, I can’t help but notice the name at the top of the screen and the thumbnail picture right below it. I blink and look again, certain that my eyes are playing tricks on me.

Nope. The name is still there. And so is the picture.

And they both belong to a woman he definitely shouldn’t be texting.

I turn to Wagner, figuring he’ll be in a panic or offer up some bullshit excuse. But he’s not and he doesn’t. He just stands there stone faced, like always.

I point in the direction of the phone. “You sure about this?” I ask.

Wagner doesn’t even blink. “One hundred percent.”

“And you know who she is?”

He nods.

My mind is racing with all the ways that this could go wrong, so I ask, “And you don’t think it’s going to end in disaster?”

Wagner shrugs. “I’m not so sure it’s going to end.”

His words hang in the air between us. He’s a cocky bastard, but I like his style. Matter of fact, I recognize it.

“If you need any advice, you know where to find me,” I tell him as I toss the peppers into the salad bowl.

The look of disbelief on Wagner’s face is comical. “I don’t need advice, Ollie.”

I glance at the phone again, because at this point, I think he just might need Jesus. “Are you sure? I’m a very successful matchmaker,” I tell him. “And I’m thinking of starting a podcast.”

Wagner doesn’t look impressed. He doesn’t really show much emotion at all until he picks his phone back up and reads the text that just came through.

The dopey grin is back.

We are so screwed.