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She’s sitting too far back.

That’s the first problem.

The second is that she’s trying not to touch me.

Her knees barely brush my hips. Her hands hover awkwardly near my sides like she’s trying to figure out where the least sexual place on a man’s body is.

There isn’t one.

Not when the man has spent the last fifteen years mostly alone and the woman behind him looks like Clara.

I glance over my shoulder. “You need to hold on tighter.”

“I am holding on.”

“To what?”

“The seat.”

I look down.

She’s got one hand lightly on my waist and the other is gripping the edge of the leather.

“That’s not going to work.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d prefer not to explain to Lila how I lost her best friend on the highway.”

Her eyes widen. “Lost?”

“Hold on to me tighter. Like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

She hesitates. “Where?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“That isn’t helpful.”

I grin. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

I reach back, catch her wrist, and pull her arm around my waist.

She goes still.

“Other one.”

“Bossy.”

“Other hand, Clara.”

She wraps that one around me too.

Better.

Except she’s still keeping six inches between our bodies.

I start the engine.