Chapter 4
Hutch
Kip’s out cold. Has been for the better part of an hour, his head resting against the window, mouth barely parted, seatbelt cutting a neat diagonal across his chest.
The van’s rattling its way up the motorway, and he hasn’t stirred once. Impressive, considering the suspension’s shot and the wake of every passing lorry could double as a wind tunnel.
I glance over again, just long enough to take in the crease between his brows.
The same one he gets when he’s reviewing a press release or pretending he’s not judging my taste in tunes.
Even asleep, he looks determined. Jaw tight, brow furrowed, like he’s in a meeting with his dreams and they’re not sticking to the agenda.
What I absolutely, positively do not notice is the curve of his neck, relaxed for once. Or the faint dimple that appears when he exhales. Or the way he somehow manages to look perfectly put together even slouched in a car seat.
I grip the wheel a fraction harder as the road curves, pretending it’s all about keeping the van straight and not my thoughts veering somewhere they shouldn’t. Kip’s phone, wedged in the cupholder, flashes something about “recalculating,” but I flick it dark.
In my defence, the GPS told me to take the same exit three times before it announced that we’d been “rerouted.” Then there were those somewhat confusing detour signs.
But honestly—how hard can it be to find France?
The last time I checked a map, it took up more space than half the countries in the EU. Impossible not to stumble across it.
I tap the steering wheel in time with the music—some half-static radio station I found when I got tired of his precious playlist—and let us drift wherever the road decides we’re going.
I should probably wake him. But there’s something peaceful about the quiet.
No sniping, no perfectly enunciated lectures about efficiency or planning.
Just the hum of the road and the occasional snore he’ll deny later.
Miles tick off lazily, the music droning and the van coughing and clanking like it’s doing me a favour by holding together.
Kip continues to sleep, blissfully unaware, and I steal the peace while I can, turning over the race’s ups and downs in my head and anticipating the debrief—and the celebration—waiting at headquarters.
Then he wakes up and opens his mouth, spoiling it all.
“Where the hell are we? This isn’t the highway.” He stares down at the phone, blinks hard, and pushes himself upright. “And why is the GPS off?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I say mildly. “You were snoring. I thought I’d spare you the heartbreak of hearing your own playlist again.”
He rubs his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
I turn down the radio, which is producing more static than music now anyway. “The thing was useless. Kept recalculating every five minutes. I followed the detour signs.”
“Detour signs to where?” His voice jumps half an octave. “Because we’re not on the A35.”
I glance out at the narrow, tree-lined road that’s been getting steadily hillier for the last twenty minutes.
“The GPS had me switch motorways near Basel. I figured it was to avoid tolls. But then it started acting up, so I switched it off. Next thing I know, we’re funneled into a detour. It’s not my fault we were rerouted.”
Kip exhales through clenched teeth, the sound halfway between disbelief and fury. “You got off the highway?”
“I was just following the signs,” I mutter. “And for the record, France is a rather large target. Hard to miss. I’m sure we’ll land there eventually.”
He glares at me, hair sticking up on one side, sleep still creasing his cheek. “Are you telling me you’ve managed to miss an entire country?”
“Only temporarily,” I ease off the accelerator as another bend appears. “Look at the silver lining. We’re seeing more of Europe.”
“Wonderful,” he says flatly. “I’ll be sure to include that in my report. ‘Driver’s handler opts for scenic route.’”
“See?” I smile before I can stop myself. “You’re welcome.”
He drags a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I fell asleep for an hour.”
“More like two,” I correct because I’m a glutton for punishment. “You looked peaceful. Call it a public service.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” he snaps. “And that wasn’t a compliment.”
“Didn’t sound like one.” I navigate around another bend that’s suspiciously similar to the last three. The road’s narrowed to a single lane now, framed by dark pines and a scattering of isolated farmhouses that look like they’re watching me.
Kip leans forward, peering through the windscreen. “Where the hell are we? Because this doesn’t look like Switzerland.”
“Really? What’s Switzerland supposed to look like? Cows and chocolate shops every five miles?”
He snatches his phone from the console, thumb jabbing the screen. “No signal. Awesome.”
“Mine’s dead,” I offer unhelpfully.
“Of course it is,” he says under his breath. Then he squints past me at a roadside sign we’re passing. Blazing yellow. Black lettering. “Why is that sign yellow?”
I glance too late as it slips behind us. He twists in his seat, trying to read the next one.
“Weil am Rhein,” he reads slowly. Then, flatter, “That’s Germany.”
“I told you, the GPS put us on the A5 at Basel. That took us into Germany. I figured it was dodging tolls.”
A bend in the road opens to a small crossroads ahead. One arrow points left toward a town I can’t pronounce fast enough as we roll by. The other points straight.
Karlsruhe — 82 km.
Kip goes very still. “Hutch.”
I pretend not to hear the shift in his voice. “Yes?”
He turns in his seat. “Karlsruhe is not west.”
I ease off the accelerator, more because of the curve than the accusation. “Directional concepts are flexible.”
“Hutch.”
“It’s relative.”
He presses his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose. “We’re supposed to be angling toward France.”
“We are angling.”
“No, we’re going east. Entirely opposite of the direction France is in. That is not angling.”
I exhale through my nose. “Only slightly.”
“Eighty-two kilometers to Karlsruhe is not slightly.”
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell starts chiming the hour.
Kip leans back in his seat, looking far too awake now. “This must be part of your ‘seeing more of Europe’ initiative.”
“I prefer to think of it as strategic exploration.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “We’re going the wrong way.”
I don’t argue. Because technically? He’s not wrong. Even though I still maintain it was the detour’s fault, not mine.
He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated, making it even more of an adorable mess than it was before. No, not adorable. Annoying. My hands itch to reach out and tamp it down just to see if I can tame it.
“We need to stop,” he insists. “Find a signal. Food. Something.”
“Now that,” I say, spotting a neon sign ahead that reads FRIE in flickering capital letters, with GASTHOF in smaller script underneath, “I can do.”
Kip follows my gaze to a squat building with the international look of “barely habitable lodging and questionable food” and sighs. “Tell me that’s not our only option.”
“It’s either that or sleep in the van and survive on the green tea Kit Kats buried in my duffel.” I downshift as we turn into the parking lot.
He eyes the peeling paint, the sagging roof, the cracked windows. “That looks like the start of a horror movie.”
“Or the end of a very long day,” I counter, turning off the ignition, grabbing my bag, and swinging the door open. “Take your pick.”
He mutters something about being between a rock and a hard place. But that doesn’t stop him from hopping out of the van, wrestling his suitcase from the back seat, and striding toward the entrance like he owns the bloody place.