Page 94 of Property of Whiskey

I set the plate beside her, but she doesn’t touch it. Instead, she raises her cuffed hands.

“These make eating awkward.”

“You’ve got fingers.”

“So do raccoons.” She lifts her wrists again. “Take them off.”

“Nope.”

“I’m still being held in your mama’s basement.”

“You ain’t chained very tight now.”

“I’m handcuffed, and there’s a lot of slack I could use to choke you.”

“You gonna run?”

“Yes.”

At least she’s honest.

I laugh. “Then cuffs stay.”

She glances at the sandwich, then back at me. “You worried you can’t handle me?”

There it is again. Different angle, same game.

I move closer. “I can handle you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Woman, I took you down while you had a gun.”

“You tackled me while I was watching Bullet.”

“Still counts.”

“You cheated.”

“Ain’t rules in a kidnapping.”

“Good to know.”

Her gaze drops briefly to my hands, then my belt, before returning to my face.

Fucking hell.

I clock the look, the angle of her body, and the distance between her cuffed hands and my pocket. Blondie might be subtle with a warrant, but when it comes to theft, she ain’t.

She’s trying for the keys.

I almost admire it.

“Twila.”

“What?”

“You’re terrible at this.”