Zara sat at the busiest table purposefully. The more bustle around her the better, she’d learned. She was lively person -- or she could pretend to be. She’d leaned to pretend to be just about anything she wanted -- it was any little girl’s dream. Like playing dress-up everyday, but there were the downsides too. Like Mari. How many times had she been face to face with Marisol, not to mention the barrel of her gun or tip of her knife? Countless. She was always prepared, Zara would give her that.
She felt warm hands on her shoulders. She didn’t turn immediately, already trying to suss out exactly who might feel comfortable and brave enough to lay hands on her bare skin uninvited. The blonde stood, pushing her chair out. She squeezed her legs together, ensuring the strap that held her pistol to her thigh beneath her evening gown was still attached. “Who do I have to thank for you getting in my way this time?” she asked bitterly as she stood and turned to face the familiar force of a woman. “Not like I’m surprised. I always did want a puppy, anyway.”
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