“Better grab one now before I change my mind.”
With a bemused huff, he grabs the bag and tosses it onto the dash as he climbs into the driver’s seat without giving me time to protest. Just as well since I have a stack of driver notes and emails to sort through.
By the time I slide in beside him, he’s already started the engine. The van chugs back to life, shaking slightly as we roll out of the village and back toward the main road. Crumbs scatter from the open bag, the cab filling with the mouthwatering scent of pastry. I take a deep breath, letting it out on a long sigh. Beats motor oil and air freshener any day.
Hutch glances over, sunglasses back in place, mouth curved just enough to count as a grin. “Next stop, Silverstone.”
I pick a pastry from the bag, something flaky and still warm, and take a bite, powdered sugar dusting my fingers. “Just try to stick to the highway this time.”
He chuckles, shifting gears. “No promises.”
CHAPTER 8
Hutch
The rain starts somewhere outside Reims, sprinkling at first, then hammering by the time we hit the motorway. The wipers struggle to keep up, smearing water across the glass in rhythmic sweeps. The world beyond the windscreen is all misty grey and smudges of red tail lights, endless asphalt stretching into nothing.
Kip’s quiet beside me, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping in steady bursts. Every few minutes he frowns at the screen, mutters something, and starts over. The bag from the bakery sits between us, half-empty and still smelling faintly of butter. I should be locked in on the road, but the rain and the way he commands my attention without trying make it hard to focus.
“So,” I say, mostly to keep the quiet from stretching too long. “How does someone who hates mess so much and isn’t even a racing fan end up wrangling drivers for a living?”
The faint click of his keyboard cuts off. “You make it sound like I wrestle them.”
“Don’t you?” I ask, risking a glanceat him.
“Some days, yeah.” He rewards me with a small smile that sneaks under my skin before I can look away. “I was a communications major. Thought I’d end up doing PR for, I don’t know, tech startups or music festivals. Not multimillion-dollar egos in carbon fiber suits.”
I chuckle, easing the van into the slow lane as the rain thickens. “So working in motorsports wasn’t the dream?”
“Wasn’tnotthe dream. I’m good at it. Just sometimes I wonder how I got here. One day I’m writing press releases for Pirelli, the next I’m babysitting a Formula One driver.”
He says it lightly, but there’s something underneath. Ambition, maybe. Or restlessness. Hard to tell with him.
“What about you?” he asks after a beat. “You always want to do this?”
The question catches me off guard. I shrug, eyes on the road. “Didn’t have a grand plan. Left school early, took whatever work came my way. Got lucky with a local garage, started learning the ropes. Someone there knew someone on a touring car team. One job led to another.”
“And now you’re flying around Europe babysitting machines that go two hundred miles an hour.”
“Something like that.” I glance at him just long enough to catch the curve of his mouth. “Suppose I stuck with what I knew—things that move fast and only stop when it’s planned.”
He laughs quietly, then looks back out at the rain. “Seems like you worked hard for it.”
I don’t say anything to that. Maybe because I did, and maybe because hearing it from him hits deeper than I expect.
I tighten my grip on the wheel. The motorway’s gone from silver to slate, slick with standing water.
Kip shuts his laptop with a muted click and leans back, watching the blur of passing lorries. “You ever think about doing something else after this?”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Like what? Join the circus?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “You’re good at what you do. But that doesn’t mean it has to be forever.”
“Forever’s a stretch. One season at a time, that’s the job.” I check the mirrors, easing around a slow-moving car. “You start thinking long-term, you miss the turn in front of you.”
He chuckles. “Considering how often you miss them, you might want to take notes.”
I’d roll my eyes if I wasn’t concentrating so hard on the road in front of me. Or what I can see of it. “Very funny.”
