Page 96 of Property of Whiskey

She glares while I take a bite.

For a minute, the only sounds in the basement are paper crinkling around the sandwiches, the low hum of Mama’s old refrigerator, and the occasional creak from the house above us.

Then Twila shifts closer to the edge of the couch.

“Whiskey.”

“Mmm?”

“How old are you?”

I stop chewing. “What?”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Wasn’t what I asked.”

“You interviewing me?”

She waits me out.

“Forty.”

Her brows rise slightly. “You look good for forty.”

I point my sandwich at her, barbecue sauce threatening to drip onto Mama’s carpet. “How old did you think I was?”

“Old enough to know better.” She laughs, real this time, and damn if that sound doesn’t get me harder than it fucking should.

I set the sandwich down before my appetite turns into something else.

“You trying to get me to take those cuffs off?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You always this suspicious?”

“Only when deputies start batting their eyelashes.”

“I ain’t batting my eyelashes.”

“You damn near created wind.”

She rolls her eyes, picks up her sandwich, and takes a bite. Barbecue sauce catches at the corner of her mouth, and she licks it away so slowly there ain’t a chance in hell it’s accidental.

My eyes follow the movement anyway.

Twila catches me. “So.”

I lean back in the chair. “No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“Answer’s still no.”