“Problem?” he asked.
His voice sounded rougher.
Good.
Suffer.
“No,” I said. “Just evaluating the ergonomic nightmare.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. This seat design is hostile to independent women.”
“Seat design didn’t make you climb on stiff as a fence post.”
“I am maintaining core stability.”
“You’re gonna maintain yourself into the dirt if you don’t hold on.”
“I’m holding on.”
“You’re touching my shirt with two fingers.”
I looked down. He was correct. My hands rested on either side of his waist with the commitment level of a woman handling a suspicious package.
Before I could adjust, Mason reached back, took both my wrists, and pulled my arms around him.
All at once, my palms landed against his stomach.
Hard muscle shifted under my hands.
I forgot how to breathe like a normal citizen.
His abdomen was solid beneath the Henley, the kind of solid that came from lifting engines, throwing punches, and refusing therapy. My fingers spread before I could stop them, registering heat, fabric, the ridges of muscle beneath, the way his body tensed when I touched him properly.
He went still again.
So did I.
Regan coughed loudly. “Everyone alive?”
“Unfortunately,” I said.
Mason’s hand covered mine for half a second, pressing my palm flatter against him. “Hold here.”
His voice had dropped.
That did not help.
“I understand mechanics,” I said, because apparently when aroused, I became insufferable. “You don’t have to manually install me.”
“You were holding on like I had a disease.”
“You might.”
“Nothing you can catch through a shirt.”
Amber made a delighted sound from the porch.
