Page 32 of Trigger Happy

15Lawton

Did my wife forget we’re supposed to be married?

I could push my way through the crowd, maybe throw a few punches, but first off, that would draw attention, and second, if she wants to flirt with some guy wearing a Not My First Rodeo T-shirt, that’s her call.

I’ll silently judge her taste in men while sipping my pumpkin spice latte.

Except then the guy puts his hand on her lower back, and Sabrina gives him a tight smile. I know her well enough to know she’d rather give up her pro/con list than talk to this prick, but still. It’s not my duty as a fake husband to intervene. She can stab a man with stilettos.

But then his hand drifts to her ass.

All right, then. I reach for my gun, but pulling that out is a bad idea. Too many witnesses.

Her polite smile twists into a frown, and when she tries to push him away, he squeezes. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m beelining through the booths, muttering ’scuse mes. Clearly, this asshole didn’t have a mom who threatened to pry his toenails off if he ever touched a woman against her will.

I tell myself I’m doing this so that Sabrina doesn’t end up slicing off this guy’s hand in the middle of the farmers market, but I only think of that when I’m a foot away from her. Once I’m close enough, I loop my arm around her and drag her away, splaying my hand on the curve of her waist so the guy gets a good view.

“There you are, darlin’. Been looking everywhere for you.” I press my lips to the corner of her mouth. She startles but then places her hand on my chest.

“You flirting with my wife?” I smile at him the same way I did before I killed a human trafficker with a jackhammer.

He does a double take, blinks, and backs off with his hands up. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—”

He bolts.

I keep my arm around Sabrina, rubbing my thumb in slow circles on her waist. It feels like she relaxes against me, but once he’s gone, she ducks out of my grasp. “I didn’t take you for the territorial type.”

I didn’t either. I don’t get jealous. Ever. My knuckles pop anyway. “I’m not. Flirt all you want. I know a hundred ways to kill a man.”

She lifts a shoulder. “You’re the one who didn’t want to buy me a ring.”

I’m thinking about it again. His hand. Her ass. I don’t want her to have to deal with gropey pricks. Before I can think it through, I blurt, “You want a ring? Fine. Pick one out.”

She jerks back, her steely eyes wide. “What?”

I wave a hand at the antique booth. “Get an opal or something. I don’t care.”

Her brows shoot up. “You remembered?”

“What?”

“My birthstone.”

A pause. Did I? “Guess so.”

A longer pause. Some wrinkly woman carrying a jar of cinnamon sticks squeezes between us.

“You’re serious?” she says, mouth hanging open.

“Yeah, I am. You’re right. We need to play the part. Amazon takes two days to deliver, and we’re here, so pick one.”

This is only to keep up our fake marriage bit, but when she starts looking at all the rings, a heavy weight knots up my chest. I glance over my shoulder, like Ma is going to somehow pop out from the pumpkin cinnamon roll booth and shout, Traitor!

She takes her time, trying out dozens of rings on her finger. Finally, she lifts a gold band with an oval opal. I look at the price tag, and it sure ain’t the cheapest.

She examines it between her eyes. “This is the one.”

“We’ll take it,” I say, slapping a wad of twenties down. I always carry cash. People on the black market rarely take Venmo.