Page 97 of Property of Whiskey

She smiles. “You nervous?”

“Nope.”

“You look nervous.”

“I look hungry.”

“You stopped eating.”

“Lost my appetite.”

“Did you?”

Her voice drops enough to get every bit of my attention.

Twila sets her sandwich aside, uncrosses her legs, and stands. The cuffs are still around her wrists, but with the chain loose she has enough room to walk straight toward me.

I could stop her.

I don’t.

Instead, I plant both hands flat against my thighs. If she’s playing me, she gets to make every move.

She comes closer until my knees bracket her thighs.

“Whatever you’re doing,” I say, “ain’t gonna work.”

“What am I doing?”

“Trying to fuck me stupid, steal my keys, and run home to Daddy.”

Her eyes widen just enough to tell me I hit the target.

Got her.

I smile.

She recovers fast. “Would it work?”

“First part might.”

She laughs. “Arrogant bastard.”

“Accurate bastard.”

Her cuffed hands rise and settle against my chest, heat punching straight through my shirt. I don’t move as her palms slide a little higher and her fingers curl into the fabric.

“You sure you ain’t distracted?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re staring at my mouth.”

“I got eyes.”