Irons watched the sporty little number pull into his back yard, and hopped off the side of the stairs in order to close the wooden gate behind it. In this neighbourhood, it would be an invitation to leave a car like that visible from the street; either an invitation to gawp and wonder who was slumming it, or for the owner to come back and find it up on cinderblocks, sans wheels.<br/><br/>He strode back around in time to witness Hannah decamp from the vehicle, all legs and toned-down but unmistakeable allure. She hadn't dressed up for the occasion, but that was all right; he was less interested in the wrapping than the treat it held. Besides, she was the sort of woman who could make anything – and, he hoped, nothing at all – look amazing. And in fairness, he was hardly in haute couture himself; he wore black jeans and a tank-top that revealed his brawny, tattooed, tanned arms, the muscles swelling as he crossed them across his chest and eyed the actress up and down with evident enjoyment.<br/><br/>“Hey,” he drawled casually as she approached. Jon reached back and pushed the door open, letting the music flow out from the cool, shady interior. He didn't feel the need to expand on his greeting until Hannah reached the stairs. “So, can I get you a drink?” he cocked his head, his chocolate brown gaze on her intensely, a challenging smirk on his lips. “Or do you just want to get fucked?”