“I was leaving it for ventilation.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“No.”
Her hand brushes mine as she fixes it.
It is barely anything. A practical touch. Two seconds at most. She is close enough that I catch the clean scent of her shampoo under the coffee and station air, something fresh and sharp that has no business being noticeable while I’m dressed like a man being posted to a furnace.
She steps back.
“There.”
“Thanks.”
“Helmet.”
Of course.
The helmet is heavier than expected too, because apparently every object in this building has been designed tohumble me individually. Pippa hands it over, then watches as I put it on.
Something changes in her face.
Not attraction.
I am not that delusional.
But her mouth presses together in a way that suggests she is fighting something. Possibly laughter.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It’s just good to see local journalism protected.”
Kev laughs from the other side of the engine.
I turn my head, which is harder in the helmet than it should be. “I’m glad my safety brings the team together.”
“It does,” Kev says.
Pippa adjusts the strap under my chin with brisk, efficient fingers. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She steps back and looks at me again. For a second, the teasing eases.
“You listen,” she says. “You ask if you don’t understand. You don’t try to push through to prove a point. Nobody here is impressed by stupid.”
“Understood.”
“And if I tell you to stop, you stop.”
“Immediately.”
