“Or,” I counter, “it strands us in a beet field.”
He gestures at the road ahead. “Observe. No beets. Just charm.”
“I don’t trust charm.”
“You don’t trust anything.”
“That’s categorically untrue. I trust anything that required permits and a committee.”
He chuckles, unbothered, the streaks of silver at his temples giving him that maddening, grown-man charm I have no business noticing. “Relax, Kip. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
“I’m not the one treating continental Europe like a choose-your-own-adventure.”
He laughs again, husky and full, and I hate how much I enjoy the sound of it. The countryside rolls past—quaint cafés, a cluster of houses with faded blue shutters. It’s almost enough to make me forget he’s taken us off route again. Almost.
Then there’s a loud thunk from the back right wheel. It’s followed a second later by a low, dragging sound.
Hutch’s grin fades.
“Bollocks.” He eases the van onto the narrow shoulder.
I look over at him, heart sinking. “Please tell me that wasn’t?—”
“Flat.” He’s already opening his door. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“As if I’m planning to,” I say, watching him climb out into the sun, broad shoulders silhouetted against the road.
I stay put, watching through the passenger side mirror as he crouches beside the rear tire, muttering something that’s definitely not fit for broadcast.
After a minute or so of his one-man swearing symphony, I open my door and step outside. “Need help?”
He gives me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and amusement. “Unless you’ve got a hydraulic jack in that bag of yours, probably not.”
“Guess I’ll just stand here and look pretty, then.”
I scan the street. We’ve rolled into a tiny town—stone houses, ivy-covered walls, a church steeple in the distance. Anda bakery, tucked between two shops, its windows fogged with heat and the smell of sugar drifting across the street.
While Hutch wrestles with the tire, I duck inside. The bakery’s cozy and fragrant, a little oasis of butter and yeast in the sleepy town. The counter groans under rows of croissants, pain au chocolat, and thick, flaky pastries that look like tiny works of art. My stomach grumbles just looking at them. And Hutch skipped breakfast. He’s got to be starving by now.
I hover by the counter, trying not to gawk at every shiny treat like a total tourist. “Bonjour,” I mutter, earning a polite nod from the woman behind the glass.
I start picking things I think he’d enjoy. A pain au chocolat because the man clearly needs sugar before functioning. A croissant, buttery and plain, in case his stomach isn’t quite ready for something sweet. Maybe a mushroom tart for—I don’t know, protein? Moral support? I’m not even sure if he eats mushrooms, but it feels right.
I settle on a paper bag filled with the works. I pay and step back outside, the bag warm in my hands, my stomach doing that fluttering thing again.
Hutch is still crouched beside the car, forehead creased in concentration, the flat already off and the spare balanced against his knee while he tightens the bolts.
“Food?” I hold up the bag like a peace offering.
He glances up, something unreadable flashing across his face before it settles into something softer. “For me?”
“Emergency tire-changing fuel.” I extend the bag out to him. “Thought you might be hungry since you passed on breakfast.”
He shakes his head, but he brushes his hands off on his jeans and takes the bag. “You really didn’t have to.”
“You got me dinner last night, remember? Now we’re even. Besides, you’ve earned it. Manhandling a tire is hard labor.”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper, peeling it back to reveal a croissant the size of his fist. A snort of laughter escapes him as he takes a bite, flakes scattering down his wrist. “Not bad.”
