Chapter 12
Hutch
By the time the tow truck pulls up, the rain’s more of a half-hearted sprinkle than anything else.
The clouds hang low and heavy, the air thick with that washed-clean scent you only get after a long soak.
The driver’s a compact bloke in oil-stained overalls who speaks about three words of English, but between my broken French, a lot of pointing, and Kip’s increasingly short fuse, we manage to get the van winched onto the back of his lorry.
Kip watches it go up, arms folded, the picture of restrained fury. When the driver waves us toward the cab, Kip hesitates, probably preferring to walk to Silverstone barefoot, but even he’s not stubborn enough to turn down the only lift we’re likely to get.
The ride’s short, ten minutes, give or take, but it seems to stretch out forever.
The springs in the bench seat jab through the padding, and the wipers squeak in an uneven rhythm that could drive a man to drink.
Kip keeps his eyes on the window, shoulders stiff, probably composing the angry emails he’ll send the second we’re back in civilisation.
The garage is a squat building at the edge of yet another sleepy village, with half-shuttered shops and a bakery that’s definitely closed for the afternoon. The mechanic takes one look under the bonnet, mutters “pièces demain,” and shrugs.
Tomorrow for parts, then. Brilliant. A call to the rental car agency confirms what I suspected—no branch within fifty miles, no replacement vehicle coming to rescue us. They’ll cover the repairs and call it even.
I turn to Kip. “Well. That’s that. He said the inn is about a ten-minute walk that way.”
I point vaguely down the lane that winds out of the village. He just stares at me, bangs plastered to his forehead.
“You’re joking.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We grab our bags out of the van and walk in silence, the drizzle barely clinging to our jackets now, until the inn comes into view, a squat stone building with ivy climbing up one side and a sign that squeaks every time the wind catches it.
But inside it’s welcoming and homey, the air rich with the aroma of simmering soup and timeworn timber.
The woman behind the desk smiles kindly, says something in French about “une chambre,” and slides over a single key. One room. Guess we’re sharing again.
Kip doesn’t say anything as we climb the narrow stairs, gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping.
A row of mismatched brass sconces casts uneven shadows, and our footsteps creak over the old floorboards as we walk down the hallway to our room.
When I push open the door at the end, I can’t help the laugh that escapes.
“One bed,” I say. “Cosy.”
Kip stops dead in the doorway. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s only one night,” I offer, dropping my bag on the chair by the window. “We’ve shared worse. After last night’s accommodations, this is practically five stars.”
“That was a twin room,” he snaps. “With separate beds.”
He’s pacing now, jacket still on, tension rolling off him in waves. I half expect smoke to start pouring out of his ears.
“How are you not losing your mind right now?” he demands, turning on me. “We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got meetings stacked, calls I’m missing, and you’re—” He gestures wildly. “You’re acting like this is some sort of holiday.”
I rock back on my heels, folding my arms. “Because losing my mind won’t fix the van, will it? Or make the parts appear any faster.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to. “You spend so much time worrying about what’s next, you forget you’re allowed to breathe for five bloody minutes.”
Kip blinks at that, not expecting me to push back. His shoulders are still tight, but his voice lowers. “You think I don’t know that? I can’t afford to breathe, Hutch. The second I do, someone sharper, hungrier, better will be right there to swoop in and take my place.”
That hits me straight in the gut. For a moment, all I can do is look at him, at the crack in his armour.
“Maybe,” I say, the harshness in my tone tempered by his admission. “But that doesn’t mean you have to drive yourself into the ground proving it.”
The words hang there, filling the quiet like smoke. Neither of us moves. The lone bed sits in the middle of the room, impossibly small, waiting.
He drags a hand through his hair and turns away, unable to meet my eyes.
“You don’t get it.” His voice has gone raw now, his guard stripped away. “You can afford to fall apart. I can’t.”
“Right.” It comes out clipped. “Because I’m what, some carefree idiot with nothing to lose?”
I take a step closer before I realize I’m doing it. “You think you’re the only one with something to prove? I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll lose it. Because someone has to keep the bloody ship afloat while you’re busy trying to be perfect.”
He exhales, something between a scoff and a shudder. The fight drains out of him as fast as it came. “I hate that you make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t simple.” I sink down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees. “It’s survival.”
For a long moment, there’s only the hiss of the radiator and the faint clatter of dishes from the inn’s kitchen below. Then he sits beside me, careful not to let our shoulders touch.
“Maybe I don’t know how to do that,” he says quietly.
I glance at him, at the careful way he’s staring at the floor as though the answers might be hiding there. “Then let someone help you learn.”
He huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “And you’re volunteering for that job?”
I shrug. “Already started, haven’t I?”
He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders relax a little, and the heaviness in the room lightens.
He tips his head back, eyes closing, teetering on the edge of control. “You’re impossible.”
“Good thing you’re used to me, then.” I push myself up, stretching toward the nightstand where the key still sits. The room’s small enough that I can feel his pull, even from a step away. “It’s one night. We’ll manage.”
He looks up at me, tired and tense all at once. “You said that last night, too. And we had two beds there.”
“True,” I say, mouth twitching. “But that place also had carpet stains older than I am, so I’m calling this an upgrade.”
He doesn’t smile. Just exhales through his nose, the sound tight. “You don’t take anything seriously, do you?”
“Sure, I do,” I tell him. “Just not the bits I can’t fix.”
He mutters something under his breath and presses his lips together, holding back the rest of it.
“Look,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’ll keep to my side. Promise not to hog the covers. I’ll even wear a shirt to bed if that’ll help you sleep.”
That earns me a look, flat and unimpressed but not entirely cold. “You’re not funny.”
“Didn’t say I was. Just practical.”
For a second, something flickers in his expression, something that reminds me of the pub, of the charged pause before everything went sideways. Then he sighs. “Fine. But if you snore, I’m kicking you out.”
“Fair terms,” I say, and he nods, unzipping his bag with a focus usually reserved for bomb disposal. We move around each other wordlessly, civil, careful, deliberately ignoring how small the space suddenly feels.
When the lights finally go out and the mattress dips beside me, the quiet swells. Every breath, every shift of fabric seems impossibly loud. I can feel his heat through the sheets. Too close. Not close enough.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, I start to wonder if he’s lying there thinking about that almost-kiss, too.