Page 24

That was the best night of sleep I’d had in a while. When my alarm went off for the third hour in a row at two a.m., Lawton asked why I kept waking up (Are you torturing me? Just cut my balls off, why don’t you?), and when I told him I always set hourly alarms on jobs, he offered to sleep in shifts, so I actually got a four-hour stretch of sleep.

“Bobbi said she’s dropping off breakfast, remember? And what married couple sleeps with a gigantic wall of pillows between them?” he grumbles.

I roll around on the cloud-bed to face the man scowling at me. So soft. “Let me think… Couples who have been married for sixty years because they realized personal space was the secret to a lifelong marriage?”

“That’s weirdly specific,” he says.

“My dad always said alone time made quality time even better. It’s why he spent hours to himself, humming while oiling his guns, you know…” I lift my head just enough to glare at him. “Before he had to flee the country with my mom, thanks to you.”

“You really want to go there right now?” he grumbles. “They got off easy. You know what? Maybe I should suffocate you with this pillow and call it even.”

There’s another knock.

“Your death threats are going to have to wait. It’s time for us to play house.” I do a quick scan of the room. No guns. No knives. Everything’s in order.

He yanks off his blanket, hard enough that I almost slip off the bed. “All right, babydoll. Let’s snuggle. I know how much you hate it.”

I groan. “Nope. No pet names.”

“Okay, pookie.”

He demolishes the pillow wall, shirtless, with every ridge and vein on display. His body was handcrafted for sinning. Thick, white scars crisscross his broad chest, muscles rippling with the motion, but there are no tattoos, which is smart. I’ll never understand criminals who memorialize their kills with ink. They might as well tattoo I killed them! onto their forehead and stroll into a police station. Tattoos are memorable, and people like us can’t afford to be remembered.

But what he lacks in ink, he more than makes up for in unrelenting muscle, which is also unfair considering he carries a flask everywhere, and limoncello is not a low-calorie drink. Looking at all eight of his abs, I almost forget how much I’ve imagined wrapping my hands around his throat.

“Stare all you want,” he says, a smug curl to his mouth. “There’s a reason I was Mr. December in Howdy, Daddy’s 2025 calendar—only the best chest gets the Santa Claus cowboy hat. Want to get your phone out and take a picture?”

He’s trying to rattle me, make my body flush, so I say, “If you’re offering…” I grab my phone off the nightstand and open my camera. “Can you flex a little?”

His jaw falls open. “You’re serious?”

“What’s the point of having a fake husband if I can’t enjoy the view?” I snap a few photos and file it away in my Thir$t Trap folder. “Now all I have to do is crop off your head.”

He blinks, and then a slow grin tilts one edge of his mouth up. “All right, you want a show? Let me do some push-ups.”

He drops to the floor, and my mouth goes dry as I watch. There’s this little pinch between his shoulder blades every time he lowers down and flexes. My god, is this man made of whey isolate? He looks…

Nope.

I refuse to even think it.

There’s another knock. “Luke? Sophie? Are you guys awake?” Bobbi’s voice drifts through the wooden door.

Lawton and I lock gazes before he hops up from the ground. “Enough foreplay. Move over, we’re snuggling.”

I yank up the velvet duvet. “I don’t snuggle.”

“You do today.”

Before I can go through my bulleted, ten-point list as to why snuggling is a bad idea, the mattress dips under his weight, and something very hard presses against my back.

“Seriously, Montoya?” I hiss, elbowing him. “Usually, a man buys me a five-course meal first.”

Actually, a man’s never bought me dinner. Dating for me is usually a get-in, get-out situation, but that’s none of his business.

“Does that include hors d’oeuvres?” he says.

“Yes, and don’t forget the aperitif.”