The latch clicks behind him, leaving me alone with the sputtering radiator and the faint padding of his footsteps down the hall. And maybe it’s the way this day’s worn the edges off me, but something about the gesture—the low-key, not flashy kind—sticks with me.
I shake it off, grabbing my toiletries from my suitcase and ducking into the bathroom to line them up on the narrow vanity, resisting the urge to straighten the crooked mirror. Then I smooth the wrinkled bedspreads and fluff the pillows because, apparently, I’ve decided to play house in a roadside motel. Satisfied, or at least out of distractions, I pull my phone out to text Grady, letting him know I’m stranded in southern Germany with no shot at Silverstone before morning.
I’m hitting send when Hutch strolls in, a tray with two steaming plates in hand. The scent of schnitzel and fried potatoes hits me before he even speaks.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he says, setting the tray down on the wobbling nightstand. No explanation, no fuss. Just practical, efficient, exactly what he promised.
I glance up from my phone, sliding it into my pocket.
“Thanks,” I say, trying for nonchalance. But my stomach gives me away, growling louder than it should.
I grab a plate and dig in. The food’s nothing fancy. Greasy, salty, and just what I need. We eat in silence, save for the clink of cutlery. The TV on the wall looks like it gave up sometime in the early 2000s, not that either of us bothers trying it. It’s a tired kind of peace, the kind that comes after too many wrong turns and not enough sleep. Well, for one of us, at least. My little two-hour nap didn’t exactly help matters.
When the plates are empty, Hutch stacks them on the tray and sets it outside the door.
“They’ll pick it up in the morning,” he says confidently, as if we’re in a hotel that actually offers room service.
“Right.” I stretch, jaw cracking on a yawn. “Morning.”
I rummage for my lounge pants, grateful for the excuse to turn my back while I change. Behind me, there’s the faint sound of a zipper, followed by a belt unthreading. When I turn around, Hutch’s jeans are gone, his T-shirt’s thrown over the back of a chair, and he’s standing there in nothing but form-fitting boxer briefs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For one terrifying second, my brain short-circuits. He’s bigger than I realized. Solid shoulders, beefy biceps, broad chest dusted with auburn hair. The kind of build that should come with a warning label. And those tree-trunk thighs. Damn.
I flop down onto my bed and bury my face in the pillow, pretending to be fascinated with the wrinkles in the thin, scratchy pillowcase. Anything to stop myself from drooling over a guy who, as far as I know, is straight.
But it’s too late. He’s caught me looking, and he lets out a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t think. I usually sleep this way.”
I lift my head, trying for a smirk but probably only managing a weak grimace. “This way meaning nearly naked?”
“What can I say?” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Less fabric, more freedom. But if it makes you uncomfortable?—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in too quickly, regretting how fast it comes out. “Seriously. Doesn’t bother me.”
And water’s not wet.
He studies me for a beat longer than feels safe, then nods. “All right.”
The mattress dips as he climbs into the other bed and flicks the lamp between us off. The neon light from the motel sign filters through the thin curtains, enough to catch on his shoulders before he turns away.
I lie back, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to convince myself the warmth spreading through my chest is nothing more than leftover adrenaline from a eventful day, not me lusting after the grease monkey in his underwear lying six feet across the room.
CHAPTER 6
Hutch
The smell of burnt coffee drags me downstairs before I’m fully awake. The restaurant’s half empty, laminate tables under fluorescent lighting, but it’s blessedly quiet. Kip’s already there, hunched over a chipped mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
He’s studying a paper map he got from who knows where, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the world’s most temperamental shower. The sunlight spills over him in a way I wish it didn’t, rich and golden, the universe having a laugh at my expense.
I shouldn’t have stripped down to my skivvies last night. Should’ve slept in my bloody jeans, no matter how uncomfortable that was bound to be.
It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time—until I caught that glimmer in his eyes. Surprise, yeah, but something else too. Curiosity, maybe, before he buried it quick.
I’d wanted to tell him then. That he didn’t need to worry. That I understand. That he’s not the only one who’s part of therainbow brigade. The difference is that he wears his truth openly, while I’m still negotiating the terms.
But I’d stopped myself. Because what was the point? What good would it do?
We work for the same flipping team, for starters. HR might turn a blind eye to their up-and-coming star driver getting off with his race engineer, but I’m betting they’d have a field day if they found out two easily replaceable, low-level staffers were sneaking around between pit stops. And that’s before you factor in the gossip mill. The paddock chews through rumours faster than tyres on a wet track.
