Page 174 of Property of Whiskey

“You brought up panties.”

“I brought up hygiene.”

“My brain stopped at panties.”

“Your brain is defective.”

“Probably.”

“I need clothes.”

“Could give you mine.”

“I’m not wearing your underwear.”

“Didn’t offer those.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Was thinking about you not wearing underwear.”

I point toward the key bowl. “Keys.”

His grin widens. “Bossy.”

“I live ten minutes from here.”

That catches him by surprise. “Where?”

“Paradise side. Old Mill Road.”

His eyebrows rise. “Little white farmhouse?”

Every cop instinct I own wakes up at once. I mentally retrace every time I might’ve seen his Harley on Old Mill Road and come up with nothing useful.

“How the hell do you know my house?”

“Rode past.”

“Why?”

“Road exists.”

“You’ve ridden past enough to remember my house.”

“Maybe.”

“That is stalker territory.”

“Observation.”

“Criminal observation.”

“Still counts.”

I reach toward the keys, but Whiskey picks up the Harley set first and holds them between two fingers.

I grab the spare helmet from the hook. “Fine.”