Page 21 of Colt

“Y’all have to have a sheriff. You know, the guy with the gun and the ten-gallon hat and the handcuffs⁠—”

“Handcuffs?” I spear her with a look.

“Handcuffs, yes.” She holds up her wrists. The insides are soft white, the bones there delicate. I can see the tiny blue veins that form a road map up into her palm.

I’m gripped by the nonsensical urge to know what she feels like there.

What she tastes like.

I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. “I see what you’re doing.”

“Tell me what I’m doing with these handcuffs, Colton. Please.”

“You’re trying to get a rise out of me by repeating that word over and over again.”

“What word?”

“You know the word.”

“I don’t know the word, actually.”

I hold the wheel in a death grip. “Handcuffs.”

She angles her body to face me, tucking her back against the door. “Why would handcuffs get a rise out of you? Because you want to be the one to put those handcuffs on me? For being so insubordinate?”

Inappropriate.

Awesome.

Laughter rises up my sides and threatens to spill from my lips. But I feel like I shouldn’t laugh at her joke—it’s a joke, right?—because that would mean admitting something.

Admitting what? That yes, I’d enjoy the fuck out of handcuffing her with her arms behind her back. Better yet, above her head. That way, I’d have unencumbered access to that mouth⁠—

Whoa.

Whoa whoa whoa.

That was explicit. And detailed. And does she have the same image in her head? Because now the anger in her eyes is searing.

Hungry even.

Next thing I know, I’m gesturing to the glove box. “Do me a favor.”

“Don’t tell me there are handcuffs in there. Are you the sheriff?”

“You must have a thing for law enforcement.”

“Not my type.”

“Yeah, and what is your type?”

“Not assholes.”

I harrumph. Since when do I harrumph? Am I eighty-seven years old? “You’re gonna love me, then.”

“Already do.” She smiles tightly as she opens the glove box. Seeing its contents, she blinks, and that smile…it morphs into something almost genuine. Like she’s pleasantly surprised, delighted even, and she’s not afraid to let it show. “Holy cow, Colton, are you fun?”

She holds up a half pint of Woodford Reserve bourbon and a trio of individually packaged Macanudo cigars.