Page 37 of Trigger Happy

“Running an underground dog-fighting ring?” he continues.

“Did you see all that space those dogs had? She’s giving them their best life.”

The waitress stops by and drops off his country breakfast plate. “Making skin suits?” he says when she’s gone.

“Can you take this seriously?” I say. “She’s not making skin suits, which is good because I spend way too much time on my twelve-step routine to have my face ripped off.”

“Twelve steps?” He nearly spits out his latte.

I sip my black coffee from a mug that reads Small Town Girl. “Mom always said confidence kills, and confidence starts with self-love.”

My mom’s specialty was conning criminals, so she had a closet full of disguises, and some of my best memories are of playing dress-up while she showed me how to give people what I wanted them to see. Look him in the eye when you want a man to notice you. Clench your jaw just so if you want them to avoid you. Above all, you must believe the act. Everything from my love of nice things to my twelve-step skin-care routine are all the pieces of her that stuck to my personality.

Lawton pokes the yolk of his egg with a fork. “If you need self-love, buy a vibrator. You don’t need an hour-long skin-care routine.”

“Careful, that sounded an awful lot like a compliment.”

“And ruin our rivalry? I wouldn’t dare.” He goes back to inhaling his country breakfast plate.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and my thoughts drift back to that kiss again. I don’t want to be thinking about it, especially not when Lawton’s so unbothered by the entire thing. I wish I could be that laissez-faire, but instead, I spent the morning writing out a list titled: Reasons Not To Kiss A Montoya (Again).

His family is the reason your parents are fugitives

He believes jeans are formalwear

He’s obviously still not over Katya

He wears cowboy boots

He thinks the phrase is: “It’s a mute point”

See 4—cowboy boots!

The kiss was only a quick peck, but my body still remembers the feel of his lips, so I chant it was fake! it was fake! it was fake! like that will obliterate the reality.

We finish breakfast and then spend all day creating a fake wedding registry for Sophie & Luke on The Knot, retroactively postdating it back two years ago. Just to cover our bases. One secure VPN to mask my IP address and two hours of hacking later, voila!, I have a seventy-five-item registry complete with an air fryer.

By the time Friday arrives, I’m ready for this dinner. The only thing I’m not ready for is faking it with Lawton.

19Sabrina

I plan for a lot of things. My wedding (satin drop-waist corset gown with a cathedral veil), my funeral (cremated and made into a diamond), my jobs (poison-infused press-ons are great for gouging), but I didn’t plan for how much I would actually like Bobbi.

I refuse to let it become a problem.

She’s been firing off questions all night, leaning forward and listening intently to each word of my answers. I planned on giving her fake responses, but we have more in common than I thought. Turns out, we both prefer mid-2000s TV shows (“the nostalgia!”), hate cilantro (“it’s so soapy!”), and believe the worst form of torture is resetting your password (“or being waterboarded, just kidding!”).

“Or gardening,” Bobbi adds. “I hate gardening. It hurts my knees, and the dirt is such a pain to get out from under your nails.”

We even wear the same lipstick. After bemoaning how it’s sold out everywhere, she nudges my shoulder. “You know, I had no idea we’d click like this. I’m not always great at peopling. I can come on a little strong sometimes.”

I bump her back with my elbow. “You’re not great at peopling? I asked you about a scar on your hand when I’d known you for less than two hours.”

“Yeah, that was a bit of an orange flag, but I’m glad I gave you a second chance. Now we’re best friends.”

Friends.

This is what I want, her trust, but my stomach feels hollow. She’s hiding something between those dimples. At least, I think she is. There’s this tiny voice in my head that keeps asking, What if she’s innocent?