Page 98 of Property of Whiskey

“That your excuse?”

“Worked before.”

She leans closer, her hair falling over one shoulder and brushing my arm. She smells like clean hair and something faintly sweet I can’t name because I buy three-in-one soap and call personal care handled.

Nothing like cigarettes and clubhouse perfume. Nothing like anybody I usually let this close.

My hands stay on my thighs.

Barely.

“You’re playing with fire,” I tell her.

“Ain’t scared of fire.”

“Should be.”

“I’m not scared of you either.”

“I know.”

“That bother you?”

“More than it ought to.”

The game eases from her expression for a moment, leaving curiosity behind. Then she notices the bite mark on my hand. Her fingers leave my chest and circle my wrist, turning my hand over carefully.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“I did get you good.”

“Proud?”

“Little.”

Her thumb drags lightly over the marks left by her teeth, and my fingers flex against my thigh before I can stop them.

She feels it.

Twila’s confidence comes roaring back. “You know, for a man who kidnapped me, you’re pretty easy to distract.”

I catch her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop her hand before it gets anywhere near my pocket. My thumb stays away from the pulse beating beneath her skin because touching that feels more dangerous than stopping her.

“Found your plan.”

She tries innocent. She’s terrible at that too. “What plan?”

“Keys.”

“I haven’t touched your keys.”

“Yet.”

“You think pretty highly of yourself.”

“I think highly enough to know you ain’t suddenly dying to climb into my lap because I brought barbecue.”