He doesn’t look at me, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
The attendant checks us through. Hutch smiles his laid-back smile. I manage something close to polite and hope it passes for normal.
We pull forward, toward the line of cars waiting to board the shuttle. Hutch shifts into park with a thunk then leans back, stretching one arm along the top of his seat.
“Not long before we board,” he says. “You can nap if you want.”
I let out a small snort. “You really think I can shut my brain down that easily?”
“I think neither one of us got a whole lot of sleep last night.” His voice is teasing but tender, which is somehow worse. “And you don’t have to be on all the time.”
“Kind of do.” I stare out at the line of brake lights. “It’s the job.”
“That’s the role,” he corrects quietly. “Not you.”
The words hit like a jab to the ribs, unexpected and painful in a way I can’t name. I look over at him, and he’s watching me. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just seeing me.
And that’s the part I’m not ready for.
Before I can respond, boarding begins, vehicles lining up in two neat rows toward the train that will take us under the English Channel. Hutch starts the van rolling, the engine rumbling steadily beneath us.
As we move into the tunnel car, enclosed by metal walls and dim lights, the world contracts to just the two of us again. Quiet. Close.
Too much like last night.
Too much like everything I’m terrified to want.
Hutch shifts the van into park and kills the engine. The fan winds down. The air is thick with tension.
He turns his head, eyes lingering on me. “You sure you’re okay?”
No. Not even a little.
But I nod anyway, because if I say anything else, I’ll give myself away.
“Yeah,” I lie once I’ve pulled myself together enough to speak. “I’m fine.”
The tunnel doors close, sealing us in as the train begins to rumble beneath our tires, carrying us toward whatever waits on the other side.
CHAPTER 17
Hutch
By the time we arrive in Silverstone, the van looks like it’s done a full lap of the Dakar Rally, and we’re not much better. My hair’s doing its own thing, my T-shirt’s creased to hell, and there’s a smudge of something—toothpaste? pastry crumbs? the faint shadow of last night’s beard burn?—on Kip’s jaw that he hasn’t noticed.
The second we pull into the car park, Grady’s standing there with his arms folded as if he’s been rehearsing a lecture. His gaze sweeps over the van, then us.
“Do I even want to know?”
Kip’s already straightening in his seat, smoothing his shirt like that will erase the last forty-eight hours. The faintest pink sits high on his cheekbones. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss it.
I absolutely do not miss it.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as we climb out. No such restraint from the rest of the lads, who are clearly delighted by the state of us.
Mason, our chief mechanic, appears first,mug in hand, eyebrows climbing. “Christ. You two look like you slept under a bush.”
“More like drove through one,” someone else calls.
