Page 105 of Property of Whiskey

“Obviously.”

“Arrogant.”

“You started it.”

“Then I saw you arrest a man twice your weight without wrinkling your shirt.”

“Skills.”

“Then you gave me a ticket and smiled when I called you a pain in my ass.”

“You deserved it.”

“Probably.”

She waits, because apparently she ain’t letting me off that easy.

I hate the next part because it sounds too close to honesty.

“Every time you walk into a room, I know it.”

Her face goes quiet. Shit. Too much.

I recover the only way I know how. “Mostly because you’re loud.”

She smacks my shoulder.

“Can’t let you get soft on me.”

“Trust me, ain’t the one going soft.”

Her gaze drops deliberately.

I bark out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Deputy Dix got jokes.”

“Southern charm.”

“Your version’s mean.”

“My daddy raised me right.”

Neither of us moves. Her fingers stay hooked behind my neck, my hands rest at her waist, and the hum of the refrigerator seems louder now that neither of us is filling the basement with bullshit.

This ain’t a game anymore. That’s the problem.

I reach for the cuffs.

Twila notices immediately. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking them off.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Need your hands free if you’re gonna keep hitting on me.”