Chapter 42: HANS: Chapter 43

One peek out my front window shows my neighbor’s house already alight with life.

When my alarm went off at four, the only thing that kept me from snoozing through it was the fact that I’d be starting my day with Hans.

Hoisting my work-branded backpack onto my shoulders, I look around the living room. “Okay, bye! I’ll be back on Friday,” I tell my house, then flip off the light and open my front door.

And then I scream because a man is standing on my front step.

“Who were you talking to?” Hans’s deep voice is loud in the early morning quiet. But to be fair, my shriek was probably louder.

I press both hands over my heart. “What the hell, Hans?”

He takes a step closer.

I’m still blocking the doorway, but he looks over my head into my house. “Who were you talking to, Cassandra?”

“What—” I realize he must’ve heard me saying goodbye.

I don’t really want to answer him, but I think I’m starting to know Hans well enough to know he’s not going to just let it go.

Hands still over my heart, I admit, “I was talking to my house.”

He tips his head down so he can look into my eyes. “Pardon?”

I press my lips together.

“Your house.” He proves he heard me by slowly repeating what I said.

“Yeah.” I drop my hands. “It’s not that weird.”

“Sure it isn’t.” Hans leans in farther.

For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me, and I start to close my eyes, but then he leans past me and picks up my suitcase.

I try to hide my embarrassed disappointment.

I wasn’t totally sure what last night meant for us, but apparently it doesn’t mean that we’re people who kiss when they see each other.

Hans raises a brow as he lifts the suitcase, noticing how heavy it is. And that’s fair. I definitely maxed out the weight limit.

“Alright.” I move out onto the front step and pull my front door shut, locking it behind me. “I’m ready.”

My suitcase has wheels on the bottom and a handle that telescopes out the top to make it easy to drag around. But Hans doesn’t use either of those features. He just carries it by the top handle, all the way down my driveway, across the road, and up to his truck.

He makes it look easy. Whereas I’m already starting to sweat just from carrying my backpack. Which is also filled to the max.

I’m an over packer. It’s just who I am.

Hans’s truck is still parked in his driveway, and he stops at the rear passenger door, opening it.

The back seat is small, a bench style, like up front, with a small amount of leg room.

After setting my suitcase on the seat, he turns and holds out his hand for my backpack.

I slip it off one shoulder, and before I can get it down the second, Hans grabs the strap and lifts it off me.

This feels so… intimate. Which is weird considering—I glance at his closed garage door—what we did last night.

But now, with the sun breaking over the horizon, surrounding us with light instead of total darkness, this feels very relationship-y.

“Up.” Hans’s voice snaps me out of my daze, and I find he’s already opened my door for me.

As Hans drives us out of the neighborhood, my anxiety about traveling starts to hit me.

I’m not a terrible flier. I don’t hate planes, but I also don’t ever look forward to boarding one. And leaving the country by myself adds another level of stress. I know I’ll be meeting my coworkers when I land, but I’ll still have to navigate customs alone, and I’ve never had to do that before.

I force my lungs to fill steadily and watch the world pass out the window while we ride in silence.

If I’m being completely honest, I’d admit that I’m pretty nervous about this trip.

I like to be prepared, so when my company announced this sales meeting and where it was being held, I did a search online. Mostly to check the weather so I knew how to dress, but I also like to see what a place is famous for. Maybe a certain type of food. Or a landmark. There’s always something.

And it didn’t take more than five seconds to find what this place is famous for.

Violence.

The city is famous for freaking violence.

I swallow.

I’d been so tempted to tell my parents—so I could have someone to share my worries with—but if I did that, they would’ve lost it. And I don’t need them panicking the whole time I’m gone.

Plus, it’s not like I can just refuse to go. It’s a mandatory trip. And I’m there representing human resources. How bad would it look if the head of HR doesn’t go because they’re scared but allows everyone else to go?

I can picture my mom now… “If everyone else jumps off a bridge, would you do it too?”

Well, yeah. If it’s between that and the unemployment line, I just might.

I blow out my breath.

There’s no way my company would be sending everyone there if it was actually dangerous. Those news stories were probably exaggerating.

I brush away a stray thread on my knee, then press my hands between my thighs.

I packed two outfits for each day—one business casual, one business fancy—since I’m not sure how dressed up people are going to be, which is another reason for the heavy luggage.

For today, I picked something in between—black pants, black flats, black silk shirt. The universally accepted all-black outfit of corporate life.

A large hand settles on my thigh. “You okay?”

“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?”