Page 234 of Property of Whiskey

Close.

Every bit of heat disappears.

Whiskey is off me before my brain catches up.

I yank my panties and jeans over my hips while he shoves himself back into his underwear and jeans. I don’t get the zipper all the way up before his gun clears the holster.

One second his mouth is between my legs.

The next he’s crouched between me and the darkness with his pistol raised.

“Stay down.”

I shove my feet underneath me. “Absolutely not.”

“Twila.”

I find my flashlight buried in the leaves. “Somebody’s there.”

“No shit.”

“Then stop standing in front of me.”

“That’s literally what I’m doing.”

“I have a gun too.”

“Where?”

I reach toward my waistband.

Nothing.

Right.

Whiskey gives me one quick look. “Still got yours at the house.”

“Asshole.”

“Survival.”

He sweeps his flashlight across the trees, but nothing moves inside the beam.

I get to my feet with my jeans half buttoned, hair wet, sweatshirt covered in mud and leaves.

Professionalism is having a rough night.

Whiskey glances at me, then pointedly at my open jeans.

I finish buttoning them while he fixes his belt.

“Happy?”

“Disappointed.”

I stare at him. “Focus.”

“Trying.”