Page 131 of Trigger Happy

“Gwen?” Sabrina jerks us to a stop. “You’re going to have to talk me off a ledge because I’m already imagining scenarios of you making out with some blond in a rhinestone cowgirl hat, even though this is the first time you’ve left your bedroom in—”

I cut her off with a kiss. “Gwen is my realtor.”

“Great, now I’m picturing you and cowgirl blondie going at it on top of the open house pamphlets.”

“She’s sixty-eight, Sabrina.”

“So an ageless beauty. Wait—” She tugs me forward by my flannel, breath fogging the air between us. “Why do you have a realtor?”

“I don’t. Luke does.”

“Okay, why does Luke have one?”

“Because…” I spin her around by the shoulders and point to the little sage-green cottage with white shutters. There’s snow blanketing the flower beds now, but I remember the listing said they’ll bloom with wildflowers in the spring. “I bought this.”

Her head swivels from one end of the street to the other. “You bought… what?”

“This house.”

“A house?”

“Yeah.”

“You bought an actual house?”

“Gwen wouldn’t sell me any imaginary ones, so yeah.” I can’t tell if this is good shock or bad shock on her face. “But it’s more of a safe house we can come back to between jobs and lay low. Relax.”

Silence.

My heartbeat sprints. Does she hate it? She hates it. I thought she said she liked sage green? “If you don’t like it, I’ll throw it on Airbnb.”

No response.

“Can you say something?” I ask. “ ’Cause I can’t get a read on you right now and my hands are starting to sweat even though it’s cold as shit out.”

“But I said I wanted a yacht,” she mumbles. “At the rodeo.”

And now my pits are sweating. I knew I should’ve just bought her the Cartier watch she not-so-subtly sent me the link to with a ^^birthday idea^^ text.

I tug at the collar of my shirt. “I know, but then you pointed out how you always wanted a house with white shutters and sage, not olive, paneling, then you said, and I quote, ‘If I ever stop murdering people, I want to water flowers.’ Then I saw this place listed and thought… well, shit. That’s her dream house.”

She doesn’t say a word, so I hook a finger through her jacket and pull her inside. I show her everything from the hardwood floors to the fireplace to the tiny reading nook by the window. She stays silent the whole time.

Not a great sign.

“And this is the best part,” I say, leading her into the master bath, trying not to have a panic attack. I pull open the top drawer. “I bought all these organizer-things, so you can put all fifty pounds of your makeup here.”

She’s quiet for so long I start pulling up the Cartier watch link and looking up expedited shipping options. “This is a makeup drawer?” she says.

“Uh… yeah.”

“I said I wanted a yacht,” she repeats, like she’s absorbing the words, “but you bought me a house with a makeup drawer.”

This woman.

“Fine,” I say, tossing out my hands. “If you want the yacht, I’ll get you the yacht. We can name it some nautical pun like Knotty Girl or whatever the hell you want, and sail to Dubai.”

“I don’t want to captain the Knotty Girl. Maybe the Nauti Lady, but Lawton,” she whispers, softly shaking her head. “This is…”