Page 32 of When It's Us
“Yeah,” I say—right as the door slides open.
Hutch climbs in and shuts the door behind him, and instantly, the van fills with the scent of cedar, sandalwood, and something earthy—maybe vetiver. It’s heaven in a scent, deepening as he moves around the small space. From where I’m reclined on the top bunk, I can see him from the chest up—his head, shoulders, and half his torso nearly brushing the ceiling. He takes up every inch of standing room.
His damp hair is tied up in a knot on his head, but not wet, like maybe he pulled it up in the shower. His short beard glitters in the low light. He turns and our eyes meet as he hands me a small lantern, popping it up to show me how it works.
“In case you need to use the bathroom or something.”
“Thanks,” I say and take it from him.
It’s been forever since I’ve camped, and the experience is not comfortable, given the mattress I’m sleeping on is all of two inches thick. But he’s piled the blankets high and it’s cozy as I turn to settle into them. He clicks off the cabin lights and we’re bathed in almost complete darkness, save the light from the side vents in the top of the pop up that let in a bit of a breeze and moonlight.
“If you get too cold, you can close those flaps,” he tells me, the sound of his voice muffled by what I think is his shirt coming off.
I tilt my head enough to see, and sure enough—he’s shirtless in the dark. And holy hell, what a sight. From up here, I can make out the swell of his pecs—broad, defined, and inked. It’s too dark to make out the details, but the tattoos stretch across his chest, shoulders, and arms. One arm’s fully sleeved, the other is only a half. When he turns to sit, I catch a glimpse of his back—bare except for a single tattoo on his shoulder.
He’s beautiful. The urge to trace his shoulders, trail my fingers up his neck, and into that beard hits hard—stealing my breath. I press my thighs together beneath the covers, suddenly feeling like a horny teenager sneaking one of her grandma’s bodice rippers. How is it fair for a man to look like that?
He sits, and just like that, the view is gone—replaced by the sound and feel of him moving below me, settling in for the night.
It’s oddly intimate, but not uncomfortable. Growing up, camping always made me uneasy—never quite safe inside a tent—but here, in this van, withhimright below me, I feel nothing but calm. Safe, even. I lie back, listening to the ocean and distant laughter from another campsite, content.
The quiet rumble of Hutch’s voice breaks the silence, and I can’t help but smile. “Night, California.”
“Night.”
Ten minutes later, I’m snuggled down, willing myself to sleep. But the ten or so mosquito bites I was lucky enough to receive while sitting at the picnic table while working are starting to itch, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop scratching them. I let out a small grunt of frustration.
Hutch clears his throat from below me, his voice deep and sleepy. “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”
I freeze mid-scratch. It takes me a second to register the innuendo. “No! Are you serious right now?”
His deep chuckle rumbles through the silence; the only other noise I hear is the scratch, scratch, scratch of my nails on my upper thigh.
“I mean, no shame, but itiskinda rude to engage in that kind of thing when a guys clear down here and can’t watch.”
My mouth pops open, but I recover quickly. I’m really glad he can’t see the blush flooding my face and neck. “I have all these fucking mosquito bites from earlier and they won’t stop itching.”
I feel the van shift and I assume he sits up. “I’ve got some hydrocortisone cream if you want.”
We’re already in bed with the lights out, and I don’t want to be a bother, but honestly, if I don’t do something, I’m going to scratch my skin right open, and the last thing I want is blood stains on my bedding. Gross. Also, there is little chance of me actually sleeping tonight if I don’t get some relief.
“Okay.”
I feel him move before I see him. He’s huge in any setting, but in the darkness of the van, with no light for reference, he seems to loom even larger. He bends to rummage through a cabinet under the sink, and I’m rewarded with a perfect view of his back.
I’ve never been into tattoos. I have one—a small butterfly on my lower back from a college rebellion phase—but Hutch makes ink look good. Maybe it’s the whole package: the scruffy jaw, the big, calloused hands, that voice—low and rough like gravel.
Still, it’s the bare skin of his back that gets me. Broad and unmarked, it draws my eye to the clean lines of his shoulders and lats. It’s unexpectedly intimate in a way I can’t quite name.
God, he really is a fucking masterpiece. I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t look away.
“Why don’t you have more tattoos on your back?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He straightens when he catches me gawking at him and then lifts a muscular shoulder. “Haven’t found anything I want to put back there, yet.”
I nod and my eyes drop to the cream in his hand. Instead of handing it to me, he sits, dropping out of my line of sight. I bite my lip and fight the urge to peer over the side.
“You coming?” he asks, voice gruff.
