“But in all seriousness, I guess that’s where we’re different.” I feel him watching me for a reaction, but I keep my attention fixed on the traffic ahead. “I can’t not think about the next thing. Next race, next release, next crisis.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he admits. “But I like knowing what’s coming. Being the one who has a plan.”
I glance over. He’s looking out the window, the grey light catching the side of his face, eyes far away. And I get it. Because under all the data and discipline, there’s someone who’s just trying to keep things from going sideways. Can’t blame him for that.
Still, I can’t resist needling him a little. “You know what they say. Sometimes life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.”
He snorts. “Tell that to my color-coded calendar.”
The rain hammers down even harder, relentless and blinding. Spray from passing vehicles lashes the windscreen, the tyres hissing over puddles. Visibility’s gone to shit.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, easing off the accelerator. “Can barely see the lane lines.”
Kip peers ahead. “I think that sign said there’s a turnoff in two kilometres.”
“Glad to see you’ve finally made peace with the metric system. And yeah, I saw it, too. We’ll pull off, wait it out.”
By the time I guide the van down the exit ramp, water’s pooling along the verge—what Kip would call the shoulder. The road winds through a village that’s barely more than a handful of houses and a filling station. Then I spot it—a squat brick pub with a sagging sign and the promise of shelter.
“Perfect,” I say, pulling into the gravel lot. “Let’s hope they’ve got something hot on.”
Kip gives a short laugh, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean food, right?”
“Course I do.” I shoot him a look. “Mostly.”
Kip eyes the downpour. “We’re running for it, aren’t we?”
“Unless you’ve got an umbrella hidden in that laptop bag.”
He grins, already opening his door. “Race you.”
“You’re on.”
CHAPTER 9
Kip
The air’s thick with the scent of onions and wine, something slow cooked and comforting, mingled with damp wool and woodsmoke. My shoes squeak on the stone floor as we step inside, rain dripping from our sleeves. Hutch shakes out his hair like a dog and grins when I roll my eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, posh boy. You’re the one who said to run for it.”
I brush water off my sleeves and glance around. It’s dim but welcoming, with dark beams, brass taps, and a chalkboard scrawled in French—Plat du Jour: Quiche Lorraine et Salade Verte. A fire crackles in the grate, more for atmosphere than warmth, casting the whole place in an amber haze. Judging by the half-empty glasses and the murmur of voices, it’s late enough that lunch has blended into afternoon drinking.
Hutch steers us to a table near the window, where rain snakes down the glass in long, silver streaks.
“You all right?” he asks as we sit.
“Fine,” I say, even though my heart is still pounding fromour race to the door. “Just trying to remember the last time I earned a meal this hard.”
He flags down the barmaid, eyes sparkling with the promise—or the threat—of a comeback he’s saving for later. “Two pints, yeah? Unless you’re on the clock.”
“Technically, I’m always on the clock,” I say, but I nod anyway. What the hell. It’s only one beer. And it’s not as if I’m performing open heart surgery.
The barmaid sets down two pints, the foam curling over the edges. I take a big gulp, letting the buzz spread. Hutch watches me, eyebrows slightly raised, as if reading some unspoken challenge.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.
