Chapter 13 Ginger
Ginger
Hutch disappears into the van and a light flicks on. I can't see much from where I’m sitting at the picnic table—especially once he pulls the curtains closed. I hear movement inside, but I focus on my laptop, playing around with branding color combos for a bakery in downtown Napa.
A few minutes later, he steps back out, a towel in hand and his duffel slung over his shoulder.
“I’m gonna hit the shower, but your bed is all made up, whenever you’re ready.”
He points, and I realize while I was showering, he’d lifted the top of the van, the roof jutting up into the night sky. “You’ll see when you go inside.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, and he nods before walking away, footsteps crunching on gravel.
I wrap up a few more minutes of work at the picnic table, then decide if I’m going to get ready for bed without an audience, now’s probably my best shot. After saving my file, I shut down my laptop and gather my things.
Inside the van, I immediately see how Hutch manages to move around—there’s way more headroom than I expected.
The raised roof opens the space, and he’s even carved out a cozy little loft bed for me.
A little too cozy, since there’s barely any clearance between the mattress and the canvas above, but hey—at least we’re not sharing.
Thank God. Given how I haven’t stopped ogling him since he picked me up, separate beds are non-negotiable.
Not sure when he’ll be back, I dig through my suitcase for pajamas.
After a quick scan of the windows to make sure I’m not putting on a show, I strip off my top and bra and tug on an oversized tee, then slip out of my pants.
A cool breeze from the ocean slips in, making me shiver—this isn’t Napa.
Up here in Northern California, the nights bite back.
Gravel crunches outside. I pause, then hurry up the step by the cupboard and scramble under the covers as a knock hits the van door.
“You decent?” Hutch calls.
“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, with him right 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 it is kinda 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.
Judging by the evenness of his tone, he probably didn’t mean for it to sound sexual, but I can’t help but attach the connotation to his words.
Are you offering? I bite back a completely out-of-character school-girl giggle.
“Uh, sure,” I say, scooting to the edge of the bed, not even pretending to be graceful about it.
Getting up here had been easy—getting down, not so much.
I shift to my knees and turn, lowering myself backward, eyes locked on the tiny step meant for climbing up and down.
Carefully, I plant my feet on the floor.
When I straighten and Hutch comes into view, our eyes meet. He flips on a small light and tips his chin toward the empty spot on the bed beside him.
Fucking hell, I’m glad it’s dim—because I can’t stop staring at all that exposed skin; it should be illegal. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Sit,” he tells me and uncaps the cream. “Where does it itch?”
“I can do it,” I assure him. It comes out as exasperation when he doesn’t hand it over, but honestly, being this close to him is doing crazy shit to my lady bits and having his hands on me will literally push me over the edge.
I scoff when he looks up at me, then drop down beside him—acutely aware that I’m in nothing but a T-shirt and panties. Four mosquito bites dot my shin, with two more tucked behind my knee.
My eyes drift over his bare thighs, up the dark boxer briefs, and across his abs. It’s the first time I’ve seen the full spread, and goddamn.
What gets me most? He’s completely unfazed, sitting here, nearly naked beside me. Of course he is.
Hutch squirts some cream onto my fingers, and I start rubbing it into the bites. The itch is still there, but the cool cream feels good on the heated skin. I let out a soft sigh.
“Is that all of them?” he asks, nodding to where I’m still rubbing in cream.
“I have some on the other leg, too,” I tell him.
There are more on this side too, but they’re higher, and I am not going there right now. Hopefully, this will be enough to stop the worst of them from itching and keeping me awake.
He gives me more cream for each bite, and his eye snags on the nastiest of my blisters from earlier.
He chuckles. “You’re a mess, California.”
I don’t know if it’s the darkness, or the sort of sleepy quality to the sound of his voice, or the fact that he’s nearly naked next to me, but his soft admonishment doesn’t sting like it normally does.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I tell him as he reaches out to check it for me.
He touches my foot and inspects the other toe that has the popped blister on it. “You lost your Band-Aids.”
“They came off when I showered.”