“Of course I do.” He throws it into gear, his expression perfectly neutral. “Don’t worry. The last time I tried this, I only took out one traffic cone.”
“God help us both,” I grumble, buckling in as we lurch out of the garage.
He glances over, one brow raised. “You taking the lead on directions? Or should I guess which way we’re supposed to go?”
“I’m on it.” I fish out my cell phone, open the Maps app, and punch in the address to the team’s headquarters in the UK. “Stay on this road for about twelve miles, then take the A3 toward Basel.”
“Proper useful, that, in a country that’s used the metric system for a hundred and fifty years. Are you planning to convert on the fly, or should I guess when twelve of your American miles are up?”
I drag in a breath through my nose, buying myself a second before I make this worse. “Thanks for the history lesson, professor. Just try not to miss the sign.”
“I’ll do my best.” He changes lanes and leans back, one hand draped over the wheel. “I suppose you’ll want to take charge of the playlist, too. Let me guess. Something weepy, terribly cultured, and painfully dull.”
“For your information, I’m perfectly capable of choosing music that doesn’t put people to sleep.”
“Good, because me nodding off while I’m at the wheel rarely ends well.”
I pull up Spotify and hit play on the first thing that comes to mind—something overly dramatic and orchestral, the kind of thing that practically begs for subtitles. Violins crackle through my phone’s tiny speakers because of course this ancient rattrap doesn’t have Bluetooth or even an aux port.
Hutch winces. “Christ, are we storming a castle?”
I skip to the next track. Broadway show tune.
He groans louder. “Oh, brilliant. A sing-along.”
“Fine.” I thumb through my playlists. “How about this?”
The Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” bursts from the speakers, bubbly and relentless.
He actually laughs, an honest, startled sound. “You’re joking.”
“Absolutely not.” I crank the volume just to make a point.
For a full thirty seconds, we ride in stubborn silence, the beat obnoxiously peppy, until I catch the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Admit it,” I demand. “You like it.”
“Like is a strong word.” He taps the steering wheel in time anyway. “But I’ll allow it. Temporarily.”
“Progress.” I glance out at the passing cars, amusement simmering just beneath the exasperation.
He’s objectively annoying. Also objectively attractive. It’s a totally unhelpful—and potentially dangerous—combination. With him this close, I can see every small detail—the strong line of his jaw, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. It makes me want to shove him away. And lean in at the same time.
“Fair warning.” Hutch shoots me a sideways look before returning his eyes to the road. “If you start singing along, I’m pulling over.”
“Too late.” I hit the next line—loudly—and his sigh could power the van better than the engine.
“Remind me why I agreed to this.” He aggressively flicks on the blinker. You’d think it personally offended him.
“To sharing a ride with me? Or giving me control of the music? Because as I recall, this little road trip was your idea.”
He grumbles something under his breath and merges onto the highway. For a few minutes, the van is filled withmusic and the steady thrum of tires on tarmac. The Alps loom in the distance, hazy and pale under a sky the color of cold metal.
I shift, getting comfortable—or as comfortable as I can in a van that smells of motor oil and cheap air freshener. “You know, you’re a lot quieter when you’re driving. Almost pleasant.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
The next song kicks in—slower this time, all mellow synths and heartbreak—and suddenly I feel every hour of this already way-too-long day crashing into me. My shoulders ache, my eyes sting, and I swear my brain is running on fumes. I slump in my seat, wishing the universe would take a damn coffee break already.
