Chapter 20
Kip
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for Grady. He deserves the spotlight. He’s worked his ass off for it. But it means I’m glued to his side for the next few hours instead of tracking down the one person I actually want to talk to.
By the time all that’s finished, the sun is sliding down behind the paddock buildings, and the garage is winding into its nighttime prep rhythm. Half the lights are dimmed, air quieting into a steady hum of tools and clipped conversation.
I spot Hutch once—just once—across the garage floor. He’s wiping down one of the tire guns. I start to move toward him, but someone pulls him into a discussion about setup changes. Then Grady calls my name, and I blink and Hutch is gone.
So much for sorting out anything tonight.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, and before I know it, it’s Sunday, hitting hard and fast.
I come in early, hoping, stupidly, to catch Hutch before things kick into high gear.
No chance. The garage is already a pressure cooker, everyone moving double-time.
Engineers swarm Grady for the strategy walkthrough, the social media team wants last-minute content, and Grady needs me to keep the stampede from swallowing him whole.
I keep scanning for Hutch anyway. Every time a British accent cuts through the noise, my stupid head snaps up. I don’t see him. Not once.
And fine. It’s race day. He’s got a job to do. I’ve got a job to do.
But every second drags, heavy with unspoken words and unfinished business.
When it’s time for Grady to get behind the wheel, I take my place at the back of the garage, right by the stack of timing monitors. Out of the way, but where I can still follow the action.
The grid forms. The lights go out. And everything shifts into fast forward.
Grady drives the race of his life.
Smart tire management. Clean overtakes. A defensive move into Turn 11 that has the whole garage shouting.
Two safety cars, one near miss, and somehow—somehow—he keeps it together.
When he crosses the line in P3, his second podium in a row, the place erupts.
Mechanics yelling, engineers hugging, the kind of wild, electric joy that shakes the whole building.
I’m caught up in the celebration instantly—handshakes, back slaps, someone shoving a headset at me so I can give Grady some last-minute instructions for the cool-down room and whatever the podium reporters throw at him.
It’s bedlam in Technicolor, and I’m swept along, smiling so hard my face might crack.
But under all of it, beneath the roar and the champagne and the pride, there’s that same steady thrum, the one I haven’t been able to shut up since the road.
I need to find Hutch.
And for the first time all weekend, I might actually get the chance.
I push through the maze of bodies—mechanics still buzzing, engineers poring over data, sponsors drifting in with congratulatory grins. Someone tries to hand me a clipboard, someone else asks where Grady’s headed next. I answer on autopilot, nodding, redirecting, doing my job.
But my eyes keep scanning. Searching. Senses on alert for any hint of a British accent in all the commotion.
I move along the back wall, sidestepping a tool cart and ducking past two data guys deep in a heated debate over Grady’s final sector. I keep my head down, slipping through narrow gaps until I reach a clearer line of sight toward the center of the garage.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s off to the right near the tire warmers, their aura painting him in strips of subtle, honeyed light.
He’s laughing, a full grin spread across his flushed face, grease smudged across his cheek like a badge of honor.
Champagne’s dripping from the cuff of his fireproofs, and he looks ridiculously attractive in a way that should be illegal—exhilarated and alive.
The second his gaze flicks over and finds mine, something in his expression shifts. Not the grin itself, just the reason behind it.
My chest goes hot. My feet are already moving.
I weave sideways across the garage, slipping between a pair of mechanics reenacting one of Grady’s overtakes, ducking under an outstretched headset cable, squeezing around a rolling trolley piled with what might or might not be brake ducts. No one notices. I’m invisible in the celebration.
When I reach Hutch, I don’t waste time thinking.
I catch his wrist, still cool from the champagne bottle he’s holding, and tug him behind the row of stacked tires and a tall cabinet of spare wheel guns.
A sliver of shadow within shouting distance of the circus, but hidden enough for one reckless minute.
“Kip,” he starts, breathless from laughing, from adrenaline, from—I hope—seeing me.
I don’t let him finish.
I kiss him.
It’s quick and hungry and so fucking overdue, the kind of kiss that steals my breath and gives it back tenfold. For a second he’s frozen, surprised, maybe. But then his hand fists in the back of my shirt and he’s kissing me back and the only thought in my head is don’t let this end.
When we break apart, he’s breathing hard, our foreheads nearly touching. The empty bottle slips from his hand and hits the concrete with a heavy thunk, rolling in a lazy circle before settling.
His breath ghosts across my mouth as he grins. “So, was that a congratulations or a challenge?”
“Depends,” I murmur, tugging him a little closer. “Which one gets me a second kiss?”
His smile broadens, dazzling and dangerous. “Both.”
When he leans back in, I meet him halfway.
This kiss is unhurried, deeper. Less adrenaline, more intent. A promise instead of a collision. His fingers slide up the back of my neck, and I swear the garage could collapse around us and I wouldn’t notice.
“I hope you know this is going to set the whole place on fire,” Hutch says. “Rumors, HR panic attacks. The works.”
I meet his eyes, feeling something in me lock into place. “Let them talk. Grady already suspects something, and he didn’t sound ready to hit the emergency button. In fact, he thinks the team will happy for us.”
Hutch blinks once, slow and deliberate, that little tell he gets when his brain’s already sprinting ahead of us.
“But if you’re worried about HR, we can give Elodie a heads-up before it snowballs,” I continue. “She’ll keep them from losing their minds.”
Elodie is Jacques’ daughter and the second-in-command at LaRue Motorsports. I swear, the woman’s a force of nature. If we get her on our side, it’ll be smooth sailing from there on out.
“Good idea.” He lets out a long breath, the tension easing from his shoulders as he reaches up to brush his thumb along my jaw, unable to stop himself. “We should probably go back before someone realizes we’ve vanished.”
“Probably,” I agree, not moving an inch.
He chuckles. “They’re going to send a search party.”
“Then we should definitely pick up where we left off later.” I give his collar a quick tug. “Somewhere without an audience.”
His grin turns wicked and tender all at once. “Name the place.”
“Later,” I promise, pulse still hammering. “I’m not done with you.”
“Good,” he says, his thumb sliding from my jaw down my chest then catching briefly at my hip before he steps back. “Because I’m fairly certain we’ve only just started.”
They’re my own words from the inn, said teasingly in the dark. But coming from him now, it’s not a joke anymore.
We step back into the noise, the lights, the celebration, people calling our names, champagne fizzing through the air. But all I feel is that line, echoing through me.
Just started.
And suddenly, the end of this weekend looks a whole lot like the beginning of us.