Page 340 of Property of Whiskey

Fuck.

Twila doesn’t move.

I become extremely interested in a gouge somebody carved into the desktop about thirty years ago.

Could lie. Could pretend I meant something else. Could walk directly into traffic. All respectable options.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You absolutely said something.”

“Was talking about handcuffs.”

“Whiskey.”

“Twila.”

“Say it again.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“Yep.”

“You said loving me.”

“I know what I said.”

“So say it.”

I finally look at her.

She’s smiling, but not the smartass smile she gives me when she knows she’s won. This one is nervous.

Twila nervous.

I don’t see that often, and it gives me just enough courage to ruin my life properly.

“I love you.”

Her whole face changes.

“Jesus Christ.”

“That a no?”

She laughs, but her eyes shine. “Of course you pick now.”

“Ain’t good with timing.” I catch her hand. “I’m trying to have a moment.”

“You’re terrible at moments.”

“Know.”

She steps between my knees after I sit on the edge of the desk, setting both hands on my shoulders.