Chapter 3
Kip
It takes ten minutes and three forms of ID before the harried clerk hands us the keys.
“Stall twenty-eight,” she says, already looking past us. Like this is just another Sunday and not the quiet burial of my professional dignity.
The parking garage reeks of exhaust. My suitcase rattles behind me, one wheel wobbling like it knows I’m seconds from unraveling.
Hutch lopes ahead, jangling the keys, humming a little too cheerfully.
Because being crammed in a car together for the next fourteen hours is totally something to celebrate.
I’m expecting something small. Efficient. Maybe a hatchback.
Then we turn the corner.
It’s not a car. It’s a van.
A big, white, battered van with one dented side panel and a faint whiff of despair.
And now I’m questioning every life choice that led me here.
Hutch apparently feels differently because he’s grinning like he won the lottery. “Well, she’s got character.”
“She’s got tetanus,” I fire back.
He smacks the hood, and it wobbles ominously. “All the best stories start—or end—with a bit of tetanus.”
“Yours, maybe.” I reach for the driver’s side door. “Mine don’t usually involve infectious diseases.”
I barely get my fingers on the handle before Hutch’s hand shoots out, curling around it like it’s a trophy.
“Not a chance.” He yanks the door open.
“Excuse me?” I glare, bracing against the van.
“No way I’m letting you drive,” he says, chuckling. “You’d have a meltdown at the first dodgy rattling noise.”
“I do not melt down.” I shove my suitcase upright a little harder than necessary.
“Really?” He leans against the door, all smug ease. “You practically broke into hives when the hotel lift got stuck for thirty seconds in Monaco.”
“Because someone kept pressing every button.”
He spreads his hands, all fake innocence. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“By forcing us to stop on every floor?”
“It worked, didn’t it? You’re still talking about it.” He swings into the driver’s seat with the confidence of someone who’s used to getting his way, tossing his bag onto the back seat. “Now come on. The road’s not getting any shorter.”
I fix him with a stare. He looks far too pleased with himself, as if winning control of a tetanus-on-wheels rental is some grand victory.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, stowing my luggage with his in the back and circling to the passenger side. The door creaks in protest when I shut it.
“See?” he says, grinning as the engine coughs to life. “She likes me already.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You remember they drive on the right here, don’t you?”
“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 with music 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.
“Wake me when we hit France.” I lean my head against the window.
“You trust me that much?” he asks, half teasing, half surprised.
“Trust might be a strong word,” I murmur, my eyelids heavy. “Just don’t make me regret this.”
His answering laugh is deep and easy, and the last thing I hear before sleep pulls me under is his voice, playful and utterly, unfairly sexy.
“Guess we’ll see about that.”