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Ready for it? The thought jogs me further from my drunken state, and I wrinkle my nose. Oh. God. He probably has PTSD. Or something where he doesn’t like to be touched. I’m an asshole.

“Sorry I touched you before,” I say quietly, slightly stricken. I have a feeling I’d be more stricken were it not for my blood alcohol level. More protein bar it is.

“It’s okay. Look if you want to.” He glances sidelong at me. “If it will keep you from puking in the Jeep, even better.”

I reach out, watching his eyes, but his gaze shifts back to the road. The pad of my finger touches the bottom of the tattoo, the cloth of his black shirt inching up. The muscle tenses as I tug on it. I glance up at his face. His dark eyes stay focused on the road, tight lines forming around his mouth.

He’s tense.

“What happened to you?” I murmur, shaking my head.

He doesn’t answer, and I look my fill at the ink on his skin.

It’s a skull tattoo, a knife in its mouth, a simple grayscale. A flag of text curves around the top of the skull, so I nudge the sleeve higher.

I’ve seen this before, but my brain can’t quite connect it.

“That’s enough.” Dean shrugs his massive shoulders. Startled, I remove my hand, letting it fall to my lap.

“Sorry.”

So, he’s taking me home, and he doesn’t want me touching him? Maybe he is a gentleman, after all.

Sticking a finger out, my lips screw up as I try to tick off what I know about Dean.

Dean…

“What’s your last name anyway?”

“Evans.”

“Dean Evans.”

Okay. I tap my index finger against my thigh.

One, his name is Dean Evans.

Two—I stare at the number two my fingers make, closing one eye, trying to remember.

Facts.

Facts always ground me. So does food. I force down another bite of the protein bar and refocus.

Two, he’s military. Or ex-military. That tattoo is familiar enough. My dad had a similar one, after all. And then there’s his massive bulk that seems purely made up of muscles…

Nope.

Thinking about muscles is a bad idea. A real bad one. I stare at my fingers, willing more facts to appear.

Three, he seems, for all intents and purposes, to be a gentleman. Despite the accidental wet t-shirt contest, he isn’t giving off any serial killer vibes. In fact, he seems nice.

Well, he’s at least not triggering fight or flight. Hopefully the tequila hasn’t broken that brain functionality. I table the thought. For now.

Four, he’s taking care of me, despite the fact I’ve been nothing but weird since we met.

“We’re nearly there,” he interrupts my thoughts and belabored counting.

“What?”