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“Oh my god, what are you doing? Let me help.”
Hans sets the holster, guns included, on my lap. Followed by the sheathed knife from his hip.
Then, still driving the truck with his knee as we cruise down a highway that isnotempty, he reaches behind himself, grips the collar of his T-shirt, and drags it up over his head.
“Hans!” I reach for the wheel, but it’s unnecessary. We don’t so much as swerve within the lines.
And then he’s shirtless.
And I’m speechless.
He’s so perfect. By not being perfect at all.
Scars. Muscles. Chest hair I want to nuzzle my face against.
Warm fabric hits me in the face, and I catch his shirt as it falls into my lap.
“Rude.” I ball up the material.
“It’s rude to stare.”
I look past Hans to the SUV riding in the lane next to us. And the woman who’s staring across at my topless man and not at the road.
Leaning across Hans, I press my middle finger to the glass.
“Cassandra.”
I lean back into my seat, chastised, but the woman speeds up, so I consider it a win.
Then I look up and see the crooked smile on Hans’s mouth.
“She was looking,” I defend.
He shakes his head, his loose hair fully air-dried and shining in the dim light of streetlamps. “You’re a menace.”
I shrug, then pull his backpack onto my lap. “What shirt?” I push around the pile of dark clothes.
“Here,” he says, reaching into the backpack and pulling out an item by touch.
He’s back to steering with his knee, shaking the shirt out.
It’s a gray button-down, and it’s surprisingly not wrinkled.
I snag a corner and rub it between my fingers. It’s super soft and a little stretchy. Definitely some sort of anti-wrinkle material. Great for people who run around with bags of clothes in their truck.
Hans starts to pull it on.
“Can I at least steer for you?” I ask.
“You can do my buttons.”
I lean out of the way as he stretches his arms to get the shirt to sit on his shoulders correctly.
When he has it how he wants it, Hans grips the steering wheel with his left hand and drapes his right arm across the back of the seat behind me.
Twisting toward him, I grip a button in one hand and the other side of the shirt in the other, then start.
I let my fingers brush over Hans’s skin. And I trace one scar for every button I do, loving the freedom of being able to just touch him like this.
