Page 108 of Property of Whiskey

I stay where I am.

Twila has my keys. She’s uncuffed. There ain’t a damn thing between her and the road except a flight of stairs and a door.

If she wants to leave, she can.

Ten minutes later, I finally head downstairs.

Twila is sitting on the couch, free and uncuffed, with my keys dangling from one finger.

She looks up. “Took you long enough.”

I stop at the bottom step. “You could’ve left.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t.”

“Nope.”

She tosses the keys.

I catch them against my chest.

“Your security sucks.”

I stare at her while she picks up the rest of her barbecue sandwich like nothing happened.

But something did. She had the keys, the stairs, the door, and every reason in the world to run.

And she stayed.

I close my hand around the keys. “Blondie.”

She takes a bite. “What?”

“You’re gonna be trouble.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Whiskey, I’ve been trouble this whole damn time.”

Yeah.

She has.

The difference is now I ain’t sure I want her to stop.

Chapter Ten

Whiskey

Moving a kidnapped deputy into my house feels like the kind of decision a man ought to sleep on.

I don’t.

Mostly because sleeping requires peace, good judgment, and a reasonable expectation nobody’s gonna kick in the door before breakfast.

Ain’t got any of those.

Twila spent the night on Mama’s old sectional, uncuffed, the basement door unlocked and every chance to leave, while I spent mine in a chair across from her pretending it didn’t matter that she stayed.