Chapter 10
Hutch
Rain freckles the windscreen, more drizzle than downpour now, the wipers giving a half-hearted squeak every few beats.
Kip is beside me, angled toward the window, laptop propped open like he’s decided our stop at the pub never happened.
Proper professional mode—shoulders squared, mouth set, eyes glued to the screen instead of me.
The comfortable rhythm we’d fallen into—the banter, the laughter, the way he looked at me when the music slowed—is gone. In its place, there’s nothing but dead air. Brittle and careful, both of us pretending nothing happened and doing a rubbish job of it.
I tap the wheel with my thumb, keeping time with the rain. I want to say something—anything—but every word that comes to mind sounds like an apology I’m not sure I should make. Maybe I misread him. Maybe I pushed too far.
But I could have sworn there was something there. A spark, the kind you don’t just dream up. Hell, I felt it, the way he leaned in and didn’t pull back. How his eyes caught mine and stayed there, like he was weighing something dangerous. You don’t mistake that sort of thing. Not unless you’re daft.
Or unless something about the bloke standing in front of you—his stupid laugh, the way he lights up when he talks about his damn spreadsheets like it’s foreplay, how he looked at you like you weren’t the only idiot catching feelings on a work trip—makes you forget every rule you’ve ever set for yourself.
That’s what scared me most. That’s why I nearly kissed him.
Because for a second, I wanted it more than I wanted to protect myself.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the road.
The motorway unfolds ahead, grey and wet, fading into mist. Kip’s laptop whirrs beside me, a persistent reminder that he’s back in business mode and I’m back to acting like I’m not still thinking about that split-second hitch in his breath when my fingers closed around his wrist.
The silence stretches, taut and jagged, a wire drawn to its breaking point. Every small sound—the swish of the wipers, the hum of the tyres on wet tarmac—feels amplified. Kip’s fingers hover over the keyboard, his way of keeping the world at arm’s length.
I tap the wheel again, letting the hypnotic beat of the wipers and the steady drone of the tyres fill the space. Unfortunately, my nervous system doesn’t get the message, still stubbornly aware of him sitting there, only a few feet away.
“We’ll need to stop soon for gas. Fancy a coffee?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road. I’m not sure if it’s small talk or an excuse to hear him speak. Anything to break the quiet.
He glances up. “Maybe. Depends how bad this service station is.”
A bark of laughter slips out. “If it’s anything like the last one, you’ll be wishing for vending machine crisps and bottled water.”
He rewards me with a small smile, brief, professional, but enough to make my heart hitch.
Enough to remind me that underneath the perfectly styled hair and the neat button-down with the rolled-up sleeves there’s a bloke who’s been laughing with me, leaning into me, letting the music dictate the pace.
I glance at him, almost tempted to say something.
Ask if he felt it too, back there in the pub.
But the motorway demands my attention, and words can wait.
For now, I just keep driving, the drizzle tapering off and Kip beside me, a quiet reminder of how easy it is to get lost in someone without even trying.
Eventually, the awkward silence gets to be too much for me, and I reach for the radio.
The first station’s all static and yodeling, the second’s a weather report rattled off in French—I manage to catch the words température and pluie—and the third—shoot me now—is Europop so relentless it could be used in hostage negotiations.
I let it play for all of ten seconds before switching it off.
“Bold choice,” Kip says, deadpan, not even looking up from his screen.
“You try finding something half decent out here,” I shoot back. “Cultural wasteland, this stretch.”
That earns me the hint of a smile. Then he exhales, shuts the laptop, and sets it on the back seat, leaning his head against the window.
“Battery’s dying,” he says after a beat. “Seems to be a theme today.”
I sneak a sideways look at him, warmth creeping in despite myself. “Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.”
He makes a small, noncommittal sound, half hum, half sigh, and goes back to watching the blur of hedgerows. The stillness that follows isn’t charged anymore, just heavy. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.
I want to tell him I didn’t mean to make things weird. That it wasn’t a joke, but it also wasn’t something he has to run from. But before I can start, the van gives a cough. Then another.
“Don’t you bloody dare,” I mutter, white-knuckling the wheel.
But of course the blasted thing doesn’t listen to me. The engine splutters again, lurches once, and dies. I flick the hazards on and steer us toward the side of the road, the drizzle worsening just enough to make the whole scene feel like a punchline.
“Well.” I let out a long breath as we roll to a stop. “Guess you were right about the theme.”