“Tell you what. Put your hand on the shifter.” I glare at him. “Just do it. Trust me.” I huff, but I slam my hand down on the stupid thing. “Okay,” he says before setting his hand on mine. He weaves his fingers in between my own, and I swear I swallowed a drummer with the way my heart pounds in my throat. I steal a glance at him, and he looks like he’s about to sweat a rainstorm. “I-I’ll shift, you worry about the clutch.” He gulps and his grip tightens on my hand. If he thinks this is less distracting, he’s dead wrong.
