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Tattoos cover his chest.

I knew about the arms.

I did not know about the chest.

This feels like information I should have been given before agreeing to the motorcycle.

“Problem?”

My gaze snaps up.

Ryder is watching me. “No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

His mouth curves.

I grab my overnight bag and march toward the bathroom.

“Clara.”

I stop. “What?”

“You forgot something.”

I turn. “What?”

He points to my wet sweater.

I look down.

The rain caught us between the diner and motel. My sweater is soaked. So are my jeans. My hair is wet, my shoes squish when I walk, and apparently the white camisole beneath my sweater has become visible.

Ryder’s eyes lower.

Slowly.

“Eyes up.”

“They were.”

“They absolutely were not.”

“You’re wearing a wet white shirt.”

“So?”

“So I’m only human.”

I cross my arms over my chest.

That makes him laugh.

“You are disgusting.”

“You keep saying that like it’s going to hurt my feelings.”