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“Yep!” I answer too quickly, with a voice that’s too bright.
With my hands still between my legs, Hans uses the pad of his pinkie finger to lightly brush against the skin around my wrist. It’s tender but so faintly pink most people wouldn’t notice.
“Did I hurt you?” The question is so quiet I barely hear it.
I turn my attention to look at Hans. “No.” I lift my hands, turning my wrists around to show all sides. “See? All good.”
Last night, the skin was a little raw, but I rubbed some aloe on it, and now you wouldn’t even know I was tied up with my own underwear less than twelve hours ago.
Hans makes a humming sound as he merges onto the highway that will take us to the airport.
Needing to distract myself, I grasp for something to say. “So… got a big week at work?”
He shakes his head and asks his own question. “Do you speak any Spanish?”
I think back to the three months of online lessons I did four years ago. “Not really.”
“Not really?” The hand on my thigh gives a little squeeze.
“Okay, not at all. I can say the word for bathroom. And beer. Which just makes me sound like an asshole.” Hans’s mouth twitches, and I don’t know if he’s trying not to smile or trying not to frown. “A few years ago, my parents bought me that expensive software people use to learn a new language for my birthday, but I didn’t stick with it.” My shoulders sag. “That’s kinda my thing.”
“Learning languages?”
I shake my head. “No. Quitting.”
“Explain.”
Feeling self-conscious, I push my hands back between my legs, careful to avoid touching Hans’s hand in the process. “I have a… tendency to start new hobbies but not follow through.” I sigh. “Like Spanish. And German. And knitting. And target shooting. And pottery.”
It’s a depressing list, and it’s a lot longer than just those things, but I think I got my point across.
A finger taps against the back of my hand, and I lift my gaze from my lap to look at Hans.
He flicks me a glance. “What about your food blog?”
Unexpected emotions press against the backs of my eyes.
My mom brought up my blog at dinner last night, but I didn’t think Hans would remember. Or ask about it again. He said he wanted me to show him, but I figured he was just being nice.
I scoot my hand up, stopping when it touches Hans’s. “That one I’ve stuck with.”
“What made you start?”
I scoot my hand over so my pinkie is covering his.
I’m looking at his big hand below mine when it blurs.
My hand instinctually jerks back, but Hans catches it before I can move an inch.
He moved so fast I couldn’t even track it. But now his hand is fully on top of mine, trapping mine between my thigh and his palm.
“You’re quick.”
His hand flexes. “What made you start your blog, Butterfly?” he asks me again.
“I’ve always loved food. I mean, you met my parents. They’re great at making stuff. So I figured baking was something I wouldn’t get sick of.” I lift my shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about doing the blog for a few years. I just never pulled the trigger.”
“What changed?”
