Logan shrugs against his chest straps. “Works for me if it works for him.”
“Hanlon, come back here,” I command, holding a hand out to guide him. The stubborn fucker ignores my help, but grabs Logan’s shoulder for leverage.
Once his six-foot-one frame is beside me, the cabin feels much smaller. There are two foldable jump seats, and I guide Hanlon into the one behind Logan.
Still talking into the headset, I give him instructions. “Inhale for four seconds. Exhale for six seconds. Repeat that until I tell you to stop.”
I feel my own heart rate slow down when he listens to me. While he’s working on controlling his breathing, I’m trying to get him strapped into his seat belt.
Unfortunately, our helicopter uses a five-belt system. There’s a strap over each shoulder, one on each side of his waist…and one between his legs. They all clip into a device at the level of his belt buckle.
When I grab the strap between his legs, my hands fumble the device as I try to click it into place, and the belt slips out of my hand. Trying to get this over with as quickly as possible, I reach down for the belt, but graze what is unmistakably my stepbrother’s cock resting along his thigh.
He flinches, and I freeze.
“Maybe you could move your hand,” he whispers.
“Right. Yeah, sorry. How’s the breathing?” I ask, trying to play it off and change the subject, desperately trying not to notice the flecks of green in his brown eyes.Trying not to remember the definition of his muscular body.
Hanlon’s exhale coasts across my lips as he answers me.
“Better.”
Finally, I get the last damn belt snapped as Logan turns in his seat.
“You boys about ready? I gotta get this bird in the air, or we’re going to run out of time.”
Hanlon shoots me a terrified look.
“We have to be done blasting two hours before the lifts open to give everything a chance to settle,” I explain.
He nods his understanding.
“Inhale for four, remember?” I repeat as Logan flips a few switches, and the roar of the blades overheard fills our ears even though the headsets are on.
Hanlon squeezes his eyes shut. I’ve done this enough to know it feels sort of swoopy when Logan gets high enough to move the chopper forward. Right before it happens. I look over to see Hanlon white-knuckling his snow pants.
Without giving it a second thought, I reach over and lace my fingers through his.
His eyes pop open and fly to where our hands are connected.
As Logan pushes the control stick forward toward our target, my heart swoops more than the chopper because Hanlon squeezes my fingers instead of letting go.
I rub my thumb over the back of his hand, trying to give him something to focus on other than our rising altitude.
Logan holds a hand up in the air, making the number four, followed by a one, followed by another one.
We’re four minutes out from our first drop. We need one charge.
“Han, I gotta get ready. You can keep your eyes closed if you want, but it’s actually prettyspectacular to watch if you’re able.”
Begrudgingly, I pull my hand free of his grasp and lean forward in my seat, grabbing the bag and preparing the first charge. There’s a two-and-a-half-minute safety fuse I’ll light when Logan gives me the signal. The brick of dynamite is roughly the size of a basketball, and I move to open the door when Hanlon’s voice fills my headset.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.
“I have to open the door to throw the explosives out. We don’t want them going off in here,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. This is hands-down my favorite part of my job.
“You could fall out!” he screeches, grabbing for my knee.
