‘Finula, this isn’t funny. Please, get me out of this thing,’ he whispered urgently. She came to inspect the handcuff, which held Dylan’s wrist in a steel grip.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘Wait, hold still.’ Finula reached into her hair and took out a hairpin that was helping to hold up a messy bun. An auburn tendril of hair fell across her forehead.
‘God, you’re sexy,’ Dylan’s eyes drank in her pretty, freckled face.
‘For goodness’ sake, Dylan, don’t you ever let up?’ she asked in exasperation, as she carefully picked the handcuff lock. After a few moments she had managed to unlock it. Rubbing his wrist, he sat up.
‘Thanks. Where did you learn that?’ he asked with a sly smile.
‘Girl Guides, actually, very resourceful. Now, probably best not to mention this to my dad.’ The look on his face made her giggle again.
‘Definitely not,’ he agreed.
