“I’d hope not,” I say. “The lady inside was terrifyingly confident about her pastry skills.”
He grins around another bite. “Confidence well placed, then.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A check of the screen shows it’s a text from Grady.
How’s the trip going? U in France yet?
I text back a breezy “all good here,” conveniently skipping the flat tire and Hutch’s creative sense of direction. No use worrying him when we’re already almost back on the road. I hit send and pocket my phone, figuring that’s the end of our conversation, but it buzzes again.
I heard Hutch was delayed 2. Were u guys on the same flight?
Crap.
I stare at the screen, brain spinning. Did Hutch tell Ben he was flying with me? Or that we’re road-tripping across Europe like some mismatched travel vlog duo? Knowing him, he probably said nothing and called it efficiency. And I don’t want to spill anything that might get Hutch in hot water with his boss.
I glance down at Hutch, who’s devoured the croissant and is tightening the last bolt with the practiced ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Which he probably has, albeit with a pneumatic wheel gun and not whatever glorified bottle opener came with this van.
“Uh, Hutch,” I say when he’s done and straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag like he’s finishing a pit stop. “Did you happen to mention to Ben you were flying with me?”
He pauses, looking up from the rag. “Don’tthink so. Why?”
“Because Grady knows we were both delayed, and I think he’s putting two and two together.”
He cocks his head. “And?”
“And I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell him we’re driving together,” I admit. “Did you already mention it? Or is this one of those things I’m supposed to pretend isn’t happening?”
He continues to wipe his hands on the rag, utterly unbothered. “Didn’t seem important.”
“Right,” I say slowly, staring at him. “Because a surprise joint arrival at Silverstone won’t raise any eyebrows.”
I can already hear the jokes from the paddock. The odd couple road-tripping across Europe. Even if they know we were traveling together, they’ll make it a thing. And if anyone thinks we kept it quiet on purpose? We’ll never hear the end of it.
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You can tell him if you want. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”
I look back at my phone. “Of course it doesn’t.”
He tosses the rag onto the floor mat, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re overthinking it, Carmichael.”
“Someone has to,” I mutter, typing a bland reply to Grady letting him know that yeah, Hutch and I are traveling together and hoping it sounds casual enough to pass.
He’s still watching me, that little smirk growing. “You really don’t like loose ends, do you?”
“I like knowing the plan,” I shoot back.
“Right. Schedules, spreadsheets, and synchronized watches.” He nods solemnly, then hefts the ruined tire upright and rolls it toward the back of the van. “Must be exhausting.”
“Not as exhausting as improvising every five minutes,” I say, but there’s no real bite behind it.
He hums, half-smiling. “Then it’s a good thing we balance each other out.”
I roll my eyes, pretending his words don’t land somewhere inconvenient in my chest. While he gathers the tools and closes up the back of the van, I notice the paper bag sitting on the hood, grease-spotted and crumpled shut.
“You gonna finish those?” I ask, nodding toward it.
He gives me a look. “Thought they were for me.”
“They were. But generosity only goes so far.”
