“Didn’t say I was. Just practical.”
For a second, something flickers in his expression, something that reminds me of the pub, of the charged pause before everything went sideways. Then he sighs. “Fine. But if you snore, I’m kicking you out.”
“Fair terms,” I say, and he nods, unzipping his bag with a focus usually reserved for bomb disposal. We move around each other wordlessly, civil, careful, deliberately ignoring how small the space suddenly feels.
When the lights finally go out and the mattress dips beside me, the quiet swells. Every breath, every shift of fabric seems impossibly loud. I can feel his heat through the sheets. Too close. Not close enough.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, I start to wonder if he’s lying there thinking about that almost-kiss, too.
CHAPTER 13
Kip
Of all the bad ideas in the long, proud history of bad ideas, this one is gunning for a spot at the top of the podium.
The bed’s too small, the air too suffocating, and every time Hutch shifts, the sheets tug against my side, just enough to remind me he’s there. I’ve counted the cracks in the ceiling thanks to the dull glow of the light spilling in through the partially open bathroom door, recited my Silverstone itinerary twice, even tried listing every circuit on the F1 calendar in alphabetical order. Nothing helps.
He sighs quietly beside me, the sound rough with sleep. Or maybe not.
“You’re still awake,” he says into the dark.
“Observant.”
A pause. Then he speaks again, gentler. “Can’t switch off?”
I let out a long breath. “Something like that.”
Sheets rustle, and he turns, close enough that I can sense him more than see him.
“You overthink everything,” he says in the same careful tone he used in the pub right before everything went off therails.
My chest gives a small, traitorous squeeze that I try to ignore. “Occupational hazard.”
There’s a barely-there laugh. Then his hand finds my arm, his touch light, meant to be casual, but not casual at all. A shiver runs through me.
“Try this,” he says. “Breathe in.”
“Hutch—”
“Humor me.”
I do. I breathe in, and his thumb moves once, slow against my skin, and suddenly the air feels heavy with things we haven’t said.
He shifts closer. “Better?”
I should pull away. I don’t. My voice comes out hoarse. “Not exactly.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I was afraid of that.”
There’s a beat—one heartbeat, then another—and the world blurs, leaving only us.
His breath catches—mine already has—and for a moment we float there, suspended in something that feels too fragile to touch. His eyes flick down, then up again, and I swear the whole world narrows to that single movement.
“Is this what I think it is? Are you?—?”
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. Not a challenge, just a plea. And an answer to my unfinished question.
I should stop him. God, I should. But my body has already decided for me, leaning in until I can feel his mouth hover over mine, daring me to move first.
