Chapter 5
Kip
The door sticks before giving way with a squeal that practically begs for mercy.
The lobby—if you can call a six-by-six space with a soda machine and a potted fern a lobby—is heavy with the scent of old smoke and boiled cabbage.
There’s a counter in the corner with a battered bell that probably hasn’t worked since the Cold War and no sign of life behind it.
I drop my suitcase and rub the back of my neck, trying to erase some of the fatigue that’s been clinging to me since Zurich.
My body feels like it’s been folded in half for hours, and the inside of my mouth tastes like stale coffee.
I swear, the first thing I’m doing once we get into our room is digging out my toiletry kit and brushing my teeth. Presuming this place has running water.
Hutch wanders up beside me, full of bright-eyed optimism. “Charming, isn’t it?”
“Charming isn’t the word I’d use.” I jab the bell once. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. “You really know how to pick ’em.”
He grins, like this whole detour was some kind of adventure instead of a logistical nightmare. The kind of grin that makes me want to either throw something at him—preferably the bell—or drag him somewhere private and kiss him just to see if his mouth tastes as good as it looks.
I lean against the counter, watching the door to the back room and praying someone will appear before I lose my mind.
“Next time,” I mutter, “I’m driving.”
Hutch snorts, propping an elbow on the counter. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You were out cold most of the way here.”
“Exactly why I’m taking the wheel next time. At least I’ll stay awake to navigate.”
He quirks a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Might have been nice if you’d tried that this time.”
I shoot him a glare, and I swear the bell chooses that instant to work out of pity for us.
A woman who looks to be somewhere in her sixties appears from the back room, her expression suggesting she’s dealt with way worse than a couple of cranky foreigners.
Between Hutch’s accent and my mangled attempts at politeness, we manage to secure a room—one key, two single beds, twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.
The carpet in the hallway is worn flat in the middle, and one of the lights flickers like it’s trying to warn us to turn back. Hutch unlocks the door of our room and pushes it open with the exaggerated flourish of a game show host.
“Home sweet home,” he announces.
There’s two double beds with faded floral comforters, mismatched curtains, and a radiator making ominous clanking noises. My shoulders slump. “Tell me there’s food.”
He glances toward the window, where the faint glow of the GASTHOF sign blinks through the curtains. “There’s a restaurant downstairs. If we’re lucky, they’ve got schnitzel or something else deep-fried within an inch of its life.”
I leave my suitcase by the door and sink onto the nearest bed, which creaks in protest. “I don’t have the energy to deal with people right now. Or menus in German.”
“Do you trust me to order for you?” His voice is more subdued, without any of its usual snark.
My head snaps up, thrown by the change in tone. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He shrugs, already heading for the door. “But if you pass out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
There it is. His usual snark, sliding back into place.
“At this point, I’d eat shoe leather.” My head drops back down onto the pillow.
He laughs. “Perfect. I’ll see what they’ve got on special.”
The latch clicks behind him, leaving me alone with the sputtering radiator and the faint padding of his footsteps down the hall. And maybe it’s the way this day’s worn the edges off me, but something about the gesture—the low-key, not flashy kind—sticks with me.
I shake it off, grabbing my toiletries from my suitcase and ducking into the bathroom to line them up on the narrow vanity, resisting the urge to straighten the crooked mirror.
Then I smooth the wrinkled bedspreads and fluff the pillows because, apparently, I’ve decided to play house in a roadside motel.
Satisfied, or at least out of distractions, I pull my phone out to text Grady, letting him know I’m stranded in southern Germany with no shot at Silverstone before morning.
I’m hitting send when Hutch strolls in, a tray with two steaming plates in hand. The scent of schnitzel and fried potatoes hits me before he even speaks.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he says, setting the tray down on the wobbling nightstand. No explanation, no fuss. Just practical, efficient, exactly what he promised.
I glance up from my phone, sliding it into my pocket.
“Thanks,” I say, trying for nonchalance. But my stomach gives me away, growling louder than it should.
I grab a plate and dig in. The food’s nothing fancy.
Greasy, salty, and just what I need. We eat in silence, save for the clink of cutlery.
The TV on the wall looks like it gave up sometime in the early 2000s, not that either of us bothers trying it.
It’s a tired kind of peace, the kind that comes after too many wrong turns and not enough sleep.
Well, for one of us, at least. My little two-hour nap didn’t exactly help matters.
When the plates are empty, Hutch stacks them on the tray and sets it outside the door.
“They’ll pick it up in the morning,” he says confidently, as if we’re in a hotel that actually offers room service.
“Right.” I stretch, jaw cracking on a yawn. “Morning.”
I rummage for my lounge pants, grateful for the excuse to turn my back while I change.
Behind me, there’s the faint sound of a zipper, followed by a belt unthreading.
When I turn around, Hutch’s jeans are gone, his T-shirt’s thrown over the back of a chair, and he’s standing there in nothing but form-fitting boxer briefs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For one terrifying second, my brain short-circuits. He’s bigger than I realized. Solid shoulders, beefy biceps, broad chest dusted with auburn hair. The kind of build that should come with a warning label. And those tree-trunk thighs. Damn.
I flop down onto my bed and bury my face in the pillow, pretending to be fascinated with the wrinkles in the thin, scratchy pillowcase. Anything to stop myself from drooling over a guy who, as far as I know, is straight.
But it’s too late. He’s caught me looking, and he lets out a self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t think. I usually sleep this way.”
I lift my head, trying for a smirk but probably only managing a weak grimace. “This way meaning nearly naked?”
“What can I say?” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Less fabric, more freedom. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in too quickly, regretting how fast it comes out. “Seriously. Doesn’t bother me.”
And water’s not wet.
He studies me for a beat longer than feels safe, then nods. “All right.”
The mattress dips as he climbs into the other bed and flicks the lamp between us off. The neon light from the motel sign filters through the thin curtains, enough to catch on his shoulders before he turns away.
I lie back, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to convince myself the warmth spreading through my chest is nothing more than leftover adrenaline from a eventful day, not me lusting after the grease monkey in his underwear lying six feet across the room.