Page 180 of Property of Whiskey

“Know of him.”

“Of course you do.”

“Firefighter.”

“Paramedic now too.”

“Daddy like him?”

I zip one side pocket of the duffel harder than necessary. “At first.”

Whiskey puts the photograph back on the dresser. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Relationship ended.”

“Why?”

“Because they do.”

“That answer sucks.”

“Good thing I ain’t dating you.”

His gaze moves slowly over me. “Sure about that?”

Heat flashes through my body. I turn back to the closet. “Shut up.”

He smiles.

Then the front door opens.

I freeze.

Whiskey doesn’t.

He comes off the wall and moves toward the bedroom doorway before I’ve even identified the footsteps, his entire posture changing from jealous asshole to King in less than a second.

My hand goes automatically toward my right hip.

Nothing.

Because Whiskey still has my damn gun.

Then the second problem lands.

I locked that door.

“Twila?”

Chapter Fourteen

Twila

Fuck. I recognize that voice.