Page 39 of Trigger Happy

Our gazes hook, sink into each other.

“Sounds like you were stalking her,” Arch teases.

“Maybe,” Lawton agrees with a lazy grin, as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But can you blame me?” His voice softens, taking on a warmth I nearly feel despite the crisp breeze. “I couldn’t stop staring at her in that blue dress. It had this long slit up her thigh.” Is he talking about my vintage Carolina Herrera draped corset gown? “I watched her dump three glasses of champagne into a potted olive tree before she realized it was fake.”

How does he—

“You don’t drink?” Bobbi asks.

“I have to be in the right mood,” I say vaguely.

Lawton’s thumb brushes over my collarbone, leaving a trail of tingles. “She’s rubbed off on me with that one. I used to end every day with a drink, now I’m addicted to those pumpkin spice lattes.”

“Have you tried them with a sprinkle of Cassia cinnamon? Not Ceylon,” Bobbi says. “It adds this—”

“So what happened when you saw her?” Arch interjects, squeezing Bobbi’s waist.

Lawton’s eyes fall to my lips. I should pull back, remind myself he’s acting for our audience, except then he smirks. “This is my favorite part. You remember?”

I grip his thigh, squeezing hard in warning. He winces but doesn’t miss a beat. “I walked up to her and said, ‘You realize that’s a fake tree, right?’ and she didn’t say anything, just stared up at me with these wide eyes that reminded me of a Texas bluebonnet and an open mouth, fucking blushing. First and only time. I haven’t seen her blush since.”

That earns him an aww from Bobbi.

Warmth inches up my neck. I hate how convincing he sounds, because the worst part is this story is true, for the most part. It wasn’t a gala, it was my parents’ con job at an underground poker ring, and my dress wasn’t blue, it was cerulean, but I did blush.

I didn’t know who Lawton was at the time, and all I could think was that he was the most ruthlessly attractive man I’d ever seen. All muscle and scars and rugged charm. Even at twenty-one, he was more man than boy. I wanted to know his name, but he was the first person to ever make me tongue-tied, and then one of the mafia bosses smashed a waiter’s head into the roulette table, and I slipped away. Once I learned his last name, I wanted to slap myself for blushing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, tracing the spot he kissed at the farmers market as if he’s daring me to forget. I feel my heartbeat between my thighs.

“You okay there, darlin’?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my jaw. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you looked a little wooed.”

His gaze slips down my body, and the vein in his temple starts pulsing. His eyes darken, making him look more like the killer lurking beneath his skin. He rubs his thumb over my thigh in tiny circles that I feel down to my toes. The heat from his touch is making my body temperature rise, and even though this started off as a game, this feeling, it wasn’t part of my plan. I can’t sit here for another second without feeling feverish.

“Where’s your restroom?” I blurt, jumping from his lap.

“It’s kind of hard to find,” Bobbi says, prying herself from Arch’s arms. “I’ll show you.”

I can feel Lawton’s gaze burning between my shoulder blades, but I don’t turn around to look as she steers me into the living room, gesturing to eclectic cowboy paintings. As Bobbi leads me around the house, I try to look for anything out of the ordinary. A collection of porcelain doll heads, or a framed clump of someone’s hair, but there’s nothing.

In fact, there’s nothing.

No family photos, no vacation mementos, there’s only a picture of them on their wedding day. “We eloped in the same place we met,” she says, noticing my gaze on the photo. “The Grand Prismatic Spring in Yellowstone.”

She lifts her arm to point at the frame. Her leather jacket bunches at her elbow, and when I see what’s tattooed on her skin, my stomach plunges.

Finally.

20Sabrina

43.7, -110.9

Coordinates.

A fissure of excitement rips through me. That’s something we can work with. I text myself the numbers before saying, “What’s that tattoo?”

Knowing Bobbi, I’m expecting a twenty-minute diatribe with a full-on climactic moment, but she jerks her sleeve down. “Oh, nothing. Just a dumb tattoo I got a while ago. It’s embarrassing.”

I tilt my head. Coordinates are meaningful. “It can’t be more embarrassing than the Thumper tattoo I got on my ass cheek.”