Page 29 of Trigger Happy

What the hell? I don’t want you getting cold? I’ve never offered a woman my jacket. It’s genuine cow leather.

The offer is out there, so I shrug out of it and settle it over her. My fingers graze her collarbone before I can pull away, and I swear she arches into me for a beat, but then she says, “Can’t keep your eyes off my bare shoulders, Mr. Chastain?”

I rack my brain for a comeback, but all I can think about are those straps. “I’m fine.”

“Of course. I forgot you have your cactus to keep you company.” She spins around, and her flower-scented hair whips me in the face.

I don’t know what she’s pissed about. It’s not like she’s the one lusting after her archenemy next to a booth called Crepelandia, which—shocker—has pumpkin spice crepes. I buy one, because that sounds fucking delicious, before we reach Stan’s Dope Goat Soaps.

A guy who looks like Willie Nelson’s better-looking brother is manning the booth. I’m guessing that’s Stan. He’s got a gray braid down his back, weathered skin, and he’s holding a baby goat in a cowboy hat.

“Howdy there,” he drawls, adjusting the goat’s hat. “I’m Old Man Stan. Good to meet ya.”

“Now that’s the cutest damn thing I’ve seen all day. Can I pet ’em?” I ask, holding out a hand, mostly because I like goats and partly to keep up friendly appearances. We can’t have the sheriff, who’s currently guzzling apple cider twenty feet away, getting suspicious.

“You bet,” Stan says, so I scratch the little guy’s chin. “You folks interested in some dope goat soaps?”

Sabrina eyes the stacks of colorful bar soaps. “Do you make these yourself?”

He puffs up his chest, all proud. “Sure do, sweetheart. My goats are all grass-fed. I always say happy goats make happy soaps…” He goes off on a tangent, and the longer he talks, the more Sabrina’s eye twitches.

Eventually, he says, “The almond milk and honey is my personal favorite, but—”

“I love almond milk!” she interjects, cutting off his goat soap history lecture.

I tuck her against my side, annoyed by how well she fits in my arms. “That’s my wife’s favorite scent, isn’t it, darlin’?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, trailing a hand down my chest. The back of my neck heats up. I don’t like it. “My friend Bobbi can’t stop talking about your soaps, so I had to come see your booth.”

That was smooth, I’ll give her that.

“Oh!” He perks up. “Bobbi Rae? She loves that lemongrass and green tea one. Can’t seem to keep enough on hand. She’s been swingin’ by here every week for months now. I’ve been trying to get her to buy the rosemary mint, but—”

“Is that when you started this booth?” She cuts him off again.

“I’ve been around since way before then. I was one of the very first booths they had. It was just us, ImmuniTea, and Talking Tree Farm, but now—”

“She only started coming a few months ago?” she says, eyes locked on Stan. She looks like she’s trying to burn the poor guy with her stare.

I pinch her side, reminding her to tone it down. Her mouth splits into a tight grin.

Stan nods. “Sure did. I keep tellin’ them they oughta sell smoked fish at their Cowboy Candle booth, but Mr. Reeves doesn’t like fish vendors, says it stinks up the place…”

Stan gives us a complete history of the Benson Farmers Market, and by the end, I’m worried Sabrina’s about to pull her hairpin dagger out of annoyance.

“Well, thanks so much, Stan,” she says when he pauses to take a breath. “We have to get going, but I’ll take one rosemary mint bar for the road.”

We leave the booth, sidestepping a man juggling too many squash.

“Well, that was a waste,” I say. “But at least I’ll never have to watch a How It’s Made episode on goat soap.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that Stan said they’ve only been setting up a booth here for a few months when she’s lived here her whole life?”

She nibbles her bottom lip, and I yank my gaze away to some kid carrying a balloon. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

“You’ve got a tech girl, right?” she asks. “Can you have her check the purchase date on their ranch? I just want to be sure the profile’s right.”

“Sure.”