Chapter 2
Hutch
“Is this seat taken?”
Kip looks up from his laptop like I’ve asked to borrow a kidney. Then he glances at the empty chair beside him, at my coffee, then back at me. “Clearly not.”
Posh. Even his sighs sound expensive.
I drop into the seat even though it’s obvious he wants me anywhere but here, bag thumping to the floor, coffee sloshing dangerously close to my boots.
It’s been a long few hours since the race ended, and the Shanghai airport is doing nothing to improve my mood.
Most of the crew’s on a later flight, still celebrating our podium finish—good on them—but I wanted to get back early, beat the jet lag, maybe grab a night in my own bed before the circus starts up again.
So here I am. Parked in a chair that was clearly designed by someone who’s never sat down, next to Kip Carmichael, my very own personal ray of sunshine.
Kip’s the last bloke I wanted to run into before the flight home.
But the terminal’s packed to hell, so I’m stuck sitting next to Grady’s PA.
Human clipboard. Professional buzzkill. Always looks like he’s stepped out of an ad for some fancy moisturiser I can’t pronounce.
I saw him earlier, white-blond and bristling, marching coolly through the paddock.
Didn’t think I’d be seeing him again this soon, though.
Definitely not close enough to notice how wiry he is, all jagged angles and nervous energy.
Or the delicate hollow at the base of his throat.
He’s typing something fast, lips moving silently, no doubt rearranging Grady’s whole damn life for the hundredth time. I take a sip of my coffee and grin when he side-eyes me for existing too loudly.
“Bit noisy, am I?” I ask.
“You make drinking coffee sound aggressive,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the way I’m cradling the cardboard cup like a lifeline.
I glance up at him, a smirk tugging at my lip. “Aggressive? Nah. I’d call it committed.”
“Committed,” he repeats flatly. “Right. That explains everything.”
I chuckle, tilting the cup toward him. “Careful, Carmichael. That stare’s dangerously close to intimidating.”
“Good,” he says, voice smooth, eyes glinting. “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for people to forget me.”
Before I can work up a response, the overhead speakers crackle. Flight 407 to London Heathrow now boarding.
Kip’s up before the announcement finishes, laptop snapped shut, boarding pass in hand. I take my time, slinging my bag over my shoulder. No point rushing. We’ve got eleven hours to ignore each other.
At the gate, he ends up ahead of me in line—of course he does—and by the time I board the plane, he’s already halfway down the aisle, settling into his seat like he was born there. I trudge to mine a few rows back, stretch my legs as far as they’ll go, and smile to myself.
Could be worse. He might still be in my sightline, but at least he’s out of reach, annoying someone else.
I shove my bag under the seat and take a long sip of coffee.
The plane hums around me, passengers making themselves comfortable, kids whining somewhere in the back, the usual pre-takeoff faff.
Up closer to the front of the cabin, Kip has his phone out, fingers flying like the world will end if a single email goes unanswered.
Engines roar, the cabin tilts, and we’re off.
Shanghai drops away in a blur of lights, and then it’s just clouds and quiet.
The seatbelt sign dings off, and the cabin crew starts rolling their carts down the aisle.
Someone behind me is already snoring. I scroll my phone till the Wi-Fi gives up, then queue up an in-flight movie I that I half pay attention to when I’m not nodding off myself.
An hour goes by, maybe two. Hard to tell.
The engine noise turns into white noise, leaving the faint thrum of conversation and the odd clack of plastic cups.
I glance up the aisle. Kip’s there, headphones in, laptop open, posture perfect.
Still immaculate. Still infuriating. Still a bit too interesting—and too damn attractive—for my own good.
I’m halfway through wondering if he ever relaxes when the captain’s voice crackles over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, due to dense fog at Heathrow, we’ll be diverting to Zurich. Apologies for the inconvenience, and thank you for your patience.”
The cabin fills with muttered protests and grumbles. I can’t see Kip’s face properly, but I don’t need to. You can feel it—the tension prickling off him from rows away. His perfect timetable, his neat little schedule.
Gone up in smoke.
I can’t help grinning. Some of us fall apart the second things don’t go according to plan. And some of us sit back and let the perfectionists panic.
By the time the wheels touch down in Zurich, the aisle’s a proper scrum of complaining passengers and snapping overhead bins.
Kip’s up before the seatbelt sign clicks off, naturally.
He can’t stand being anywhere near delayed.
I follow behind at my own pace, letting the crowd thin a bit, and finally step onto solid ground.
The blast of air conditioning smacks me in the face, and people are milling around like headless chickens.
Kip’s already halfway to the car hire counters, phone pressed to his ear, expression set to mildly homicidal.
I wander over, carrying my bag, and we end up at the last open desk at almost the same time. The clerk looks completely frazzled.
“One vehicle left,” she says, switching between English and German in a monotone that suggests she’s long given up on caring. “You’d have to share if you’re traveling together.”
Kip makes a noise like someone’s spilled beer on his precious computer. “We’re not.”
I lean an elbow on the counter. “We are now.”
He shoots me a look that could strip paint off a door. “Absolutely not.”
The clerk shrugs. “Then one of you takes the train. But I’m warning you, it’s a mess. A signal failure near Milan has everything backed up.”
Kip hesitates. You can practically see the gears turning, his allergy to mess battling with his pride.
I tilt my head. “So, what’s it going to be, Carmichael? You really want to argue with fate, mate?”
“Fine.” He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line, as though the word physically pains him.
I let the silence stretch a beat, then flash him a grin before turning back to the clerk. “We’ll take it.”