Page 13 of Trigger Happy

“Nothing special? Rude,” I say, even as something screws in my chest. “And it might be your job to notice things, but it’s not your job to remember them.”

He pins me with heavy, dark eyes. “Don’t read too much into it, Chastain. This is a keep-your-enemies-close thing.”

My memories flicker to that first night we met at the underground poker ring, the smile I gave him—the real one. I want to seize it back. “Good, because I’m out of your league, anyway.”

“Glad we got that cleared up.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Now we can get to work, partner.”

Nope.

Not happening.

“I’m not working with a Montoya,” I say. “You think jalapeño poppers are an appropriate hors d’oeuvres.”

“You think I want to work with someone who calls appetizers hors d’oeuvres? I’d rather force-feed you jalapeño poppers.”

“Great, then have fun.” I turn to leave, but his hand clamps around my arm, and he drags me back until my shoulders meet the hard wall of his chest.

His breath scorches my ear as he rasps from behind, “Not so fast, darlin’. You saw that payday. I’m not giving that up, even if it means working with the bane of my existence.”

I look over my shoulder, and there’s a dare in his eyes. I hold his gaze for longer than I should, but he’s the first to look away. Infuriating.

Suddenly, he drags me onto the dance floor and twirls me around with all the other two-stepping couples. I hold in a gasp. His hand splays across my lower back, and I can feel the heat of him through my jean jacket. I try to pull away, but he won’t let me escape.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say when he tugs me up against his warm chest.

“Getting a better view of our friends,” he says, dipping me down. “This is the best way to get closer without drawing attention.”

“You sure you don’t just want to dance with me?” I say to set him off.

“Stop flirting with me, Chastain.”

He pulls me back up, so our noses brush. I fight the urge to push him away. We move in a circle with the crowd and it’s surprisingly easy to step into sync with him. Our hands are calloused in the same places from our gun grip, but he’s so close. And he’s staring at me like…

“That murderous look on your face?” I say. “It’s mutual.”

He shrugs. “Hate me all you want, doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

As we two-step, I think through my options because it’s better than thinking about the heat of his hand searing through my jacket. For this payout, I could work with him, even if it means watching my back constantly. It’s not as if Lawton is a surprise to me. We’ve been running in the same circles for years, so I know what to expect: smirks instead of smiles, sarcasm as a shield, and all the arrogance of a man in a ten-gallon cowboy hat. The only thing I trust about him is that I can’t trust him. I never work with partners, but I’m tired of talking to Betta fish.

Except…

“Why don’t you mind working with me?” I say.

He keeps his eyes on something over my shoulder. “ ’Cause I’m a professional, and I can separate my feelings from the job. I might hate you, but not enough to turn down six figures. You’re the only one who’s got a problem with it.”

“A problem?” I blurt.

My eyes snag on his smug smile like he thinks I’ll say no because it’s him, as if he has more control, more competence than me. I knock it off his lips.

“Fine. I’ll work with you,” I say. The smirk drops. Too easy. “But if you destroy my small intestines again with another food-poisoning pill, I’ll bedazzle your cowboy boots instead of your hat this time.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is. I look great in rhinestones.” He tosses me a sideways glare, and then tugs me off the dance floor. “C’mon, this is useless. I’m taking you out.”

“I hope you’re talking about a late lunch,” I say, shouldering away from him.

He holds open the swinging shutter door, gesturing me through. “Only one way to find out.”

7Lawton