Page 187 of Property of Whiskey

“He make you feel like you were hard to love?”

Fuck him. “Whiskey.”

“He did.”

“I said drop it.”

He takes one step toward me, then stops before he enters my space.

“No.”

Anger saves me from whatever else is trying to crawl up my throat. “What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“You ain’t entitled to it.”

“Nope.”

“Then stop.”

“I will if you tell me to leave.”

I look at him.

He waits.

No grabbing my chin. No stepping in until I have nowhere to go. No deciding that because he wants an answer, I owe him one.

That matters more than I want it to.

I don’t tell him to leave.

Whiskey takes another slow step. “You think being loud makes you hard to love?”

“I never said that.”

“Being strong?”

“No.”

“Being taller than half the men in Paradise?”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.”

I glare.

He keeps closing the distance, slow enough that I could stop him with one word.

“You think fighting makes you difficult?”

“I am difficult.”