Chapter 17
Hutch
By the time we arrive in Silverstone, the van looks like it’s done a full lap of the Dakar Rally, and we’re not much better.
My hair’s doing its own thing, my T-shirt’s creased to hell, and there’s a smudge of something—toothpaste?
pastry crumbs? the faint shadow of last night’s beard burn? —on Kip’s jaw that he hasn’t noticed.
The second we pull into the car park, Grady’s standing there with his arms folded as if he’s been rehearsing a lecture. His gaze sweeps over the van, then us.
“Do I even want to know?”
Kip’s already straightening in his seat, smoothing his shirt like that will erase the last forty-eight hours. The faintest pink sits high on his cheekbones. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss it.
I absolutely do not miss it.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as we climb out. No such restraint from the rest of the lads, who are clearly delighted by the state of us.
Mason, our chief mechanic, appears first, mug in hand, eyebrows climbing. “Christ. You two look like you slept under a bush.”
“More like drove through one,” someone else calls.
“Couple of real road warriors,” another adds.
I shrug, trying my best to project absolutely-nothing-to-see-here energy. “That’s what happens when your van decides it hates you halfway through France.”
Mason looks between me and Kip, eyes narrowing with pure mischief. Or maybe suspicion. I’m too damn tired to tell the difference. “Uh-huh. And here I thought you wanted a scenic detour.”
Kip stiffens the barest bit, small enough that no one else notices it, big enough that I feel it like a shift in the air pressure. He clears his throat. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Right. Back to business. Back to the roles we know by muscle memory. No space for whatever the hell that cosy stretch between Calais and here was.
But then Kip glances at me, and the look in his eyes says he felt it too. All of it. And he has absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Neither do I.
Mason claps me on the shoulder. “Come on, Hutch. Help us unload before Ben flips his shit.”
“On it.” I move around to the back of the van, catching one last glimpse of Kip fixing his hair with that over-precise sweep of his fingers. Trying to pull himself back together. Trying not to look rattled.
But he is. And if I’m honest?
So am I.
There’s not much to grab, just my faded duffel and Kip’s neatly packed suitcase, but I circle to the back of the van anyway, mostly for the breathing room. Kip’s halfway through trying to tame his hair for the third time when Grady intercepts him.
“Walk with me,” Grady says, already turning. Kip shoots me a fleeting look, apologetic and uncertain, before following.
And that fast, whatever bubble we’d been in on the road pops cleanly around us.
Ben saunters over as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Well, look at you two. Rolling in like you’ve survived a natural disaster.”
“Felt like one,” I mutter.
He sips his coffee, eyes glinting. “Uh-huh. And Handler Boy? Didn’t expect him to make it through two whole days with no schedule and you for company.”
“He managed,” I say.
Ben’s grin widens. “That why he looked one stiff breeze away from crumbling? The guy’s usually composed enough to survive a nuclear blast.”
I pull out Kip’s bag and hand it off to one of the interns who wandered over, clearly grateful for something to do.
“Long drive,” I say. “That’s all.”
Ben gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me. “If you say so.”
I don’t rise to it. Truth is, I don’t know what to say. Not here. Not with engines droning in the background, radios crackling, the whole team around us. Out there, between Switzerland and Calais and the tunnel, it was just us. Here, every look feels louder.
I glance across the lot. Kip’s standing with Grady, hands clasped behind his back, nodding along as Grady talks. But then his eyes flick to me. Just for a second.
And I feel it. Whatever the hell this thing is, it traveled with us. It’s here, threading between us even while we pretend to be exactly who we were before.
Ben elbows me. “Earth to Hutch.”
“Yeah.” I adjust my bag. “Coming.”
He falls into step beside me, mug still steaming. “Just checking you’re not about to float off into space. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The I-left-something-important-behind-but-don’t-know-how-to-get-it-back look.”
I laugh under my breath. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” he says, sing-song.
Yes. No. I don’t bloody know.
All I know is that for forty-eight hours, Kip and I weren’t PA and pit crew. We weren’t roles. We weren’t routine.
We were something else.
And standing here in the thick of the LaRue machinery, with everyone watching and everything expected of us, I have no idea what comes next.
But whatever it is, it’s not over. Not if I have anything to say about it.
And if he wants out, he’s going to have to tell me to my face.