Page 245 of Property of Whiskey

I watch her bend forward. Professional appreciation. Strictly professional.

“You’re drooling.”

“Ain’t.”

“You are. For my ass?”

“Extremely professional.”

She looks over her shoulder. “You want thrown out?”

“Depends how.”

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She stands and stretches both arms overhead, every muscle through her stomach and shoulders pulling tight.

I remember those legs around me. Her hips moving over mine. Her mouth trying not to make noise because Wren was asleep down the hall.

Coming here and watching her do this while knowing exactly what she feels like naked was definitely a mistake.

Then a man’s voice behind me says, “Twila.”

My dick loses the argument with murder as Cal Mercer walks into the room carrying a medic bag.

Twila barely reacts. “Hey.”

I react enough for everybody. Cal sees me, and whatever neutrality he brought into the room disappears. I smile. Not friendly. “What’re you doing here?”

Twila cuts me a warning look.

Cal answers anyway. “Event medical.”

I glance at the bag in his hand. “Convenient.”

Twila points toward a chair. “Sit.”

I stare at her. “Excuse me?”

“You came to watch. Watch. The show must go on.”

Sheila makes a choking sound behind us like she’s trying not to laugh.

I look at Twila.

She holds my stare.

Fine. I sit.

Cal kneels in front of Twila and opens his medic bag. “Any headaches?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”