Page 95 of Property of Whiskey

Her expression flickers. “At what?”

“Whatever the fuck you think you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m sitting here.”

“You’re sitting there looking at me like I’m the last biscuit at Sunday dinner.”

She snorts. “That’s your idea of seduction?”

“No. Mine usually involves fewer biscuits.”

“Charming.”

“Ain’t a poet.”

I drag the wooden chair over and sit across from her. Twila studies me, and I let her, mostly because watching her pretend she ain’t calculating the distance to my pockets is entertaining as hell.

The black shirt she’s wearing fits close enough that I can see every breath she takes. Her jeans were already tight before she started sitting like that, one knee angled toward me, shoulders relaxed like she ain’t got a felony escape plan running behind those blue-gray eyes.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Problem is, so do I, and I’ve wanted her long enough that knowing don’t help much.

“You gonna eat?”

“Maybe.”

“Food ain’t gonna seduce itself.”

“I’m not seducing you.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re bad at it.”

Her mouth falls open, and this time she looks genuinely offended. “I’m very good at flirting.”

“You flirt like you’re serving a warrant.”

“I don’t.”

“First time you flirted with me, you threatened handcuffs.”

“You liked that.”

“Yeah. And now you’re in ‘em.”

“Then apparently I’m doing something right.”

Fuck me.

I pick up my sandwich. “Eat.”