Page 206 of Property of Whiskey

The words leave before I can stop them.

Fuck.

Her smile disappears. “What?”

I look past her toward Wren’s room, then back at the blonde standing barefoot in my hallway with helmet-mussed hair and one of Wren’s purple marker stains near her thumb.

“Means you walked into my house, made my kid laugh, cleaned up after her, helped put her to bed, and somehow none of it felt weird.”

Twila’s expression softens. “Kitchen,” she whispers.

“Why?”

“Because standing outside your daughter’s room while you look at me like that feels really fast.”

We make it to the kitchen without touching, which feels like more of an accomplishment than it should.

Twila leans against the counter beneath the dim light over the sink while I deliberately put the island between us. The house is too quiet and she’s too close, even from six feet away.

She notices immediately.

“What?”

“You’re over there.”

“Observant.”

“You avoiding me?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

I fold my arms. “Because if I come over there, we ain’t talking.”

Her eyes drop to my mouth. “Maybe I don’t wanna talk.”

“There’s the problem.”

“You keep finding problems tonight.”

“Got one in my kitchen wearing jeans tight enough to violate county ordinance.”

“Deputy’s off duty.”

“Still illegal.”

She smiles. “I could leave.”

The words land exactly where she means them to.

I stay on my side of the island.

“I know.”

“My house is ten minutes away.”

“I know.”