Chapter 6
Hutch
The smell of burnt coffee drags me downstairs before I’m fully awake. The restaurant’s half empty, laminate tables under fluorescent lighting, but it’s blessedly quiet. Kip’s already there, hunched over a chipped mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
He’s studying a paper map he got from who knows where, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the world’s most temperamental shower. The sunlight spills over him in a way I wish it didn’t, rich and golden, the universe having a laugh at my expense.
I shouldn’t have stripped down to my skivvies last night. Should’ve slept in my bloody jeans, no matter how uncomfortable that was bound to be.
It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time—until I caught that glimmer in his eyes. Surprise, yeah, but something else too. Curiosity, maybe, before he buried it quick.
I’d wanted to tell him then. That he didn’t need to worry. That I understand. That he’s not the only one who’s part of the rainbow brigade. The difference is that he wears his truth openly, while I’m still negotiating the terms.
But I’d stopped myself. Because what was the point? What good would it do?
We work for the same flipping team, for starters.
HR might turn a blind eye to their up-and-coming star driver getting off with his race engineer, but I’m betting they’d have a field day if they found out two easily replaceable, low-level staffers were sneaking around between pit stops.
And that’s before you factor in the gossip mill.
The paddock chews through rumours faster than tyres on a wet track.
And then there’s him. Kip with his neat shirts and his meticulous notes, the walking definition of order and polish.
Me with my grease-stained hands and knack for swearing at pneumatic guns.
We don’t fit. Not on paper, not in real life.
He plans things down to the minute. When I’m not responsible for keeping someone alive at 200 miles an hour, I wing it and hope the bolts stay tight.
So yeah. Best to keep it buttoned up. Act like the look I saw last night was nothing, and I didn’t feel the air shift when he smiled.
I slide into the seat opposite, ignoring how my stomach twists when I sneak a glance at him.
There’s no denying it. Kip is a beautiful man.
Lean, cut in all the right places, as though he was sketched with more precision than the rest of us.
The kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own name if you’re not careful.
He taps the map with his finger, yanking me out of my daydream. “If we leave by nine, we can be in Calais by dark and make it to Silverstone before midnight.”
His tone is brisk, businesslike, as if last night didn’t simmer with something unspoken. I nod and take a sip of the coffee the waitress just dropped off for me, swallowing the bitter taste of both.
“Autobahn to Stuttgart,” I say, keeping my eyes on him, though I shouldn’t.
There’s a deliberateness to the way he holds his spoon, the careful angle of his wrist as he stirs his coffee.
It’s infuriatingly particular. Which would be easier to ignore if he weren’t so damn handsome.
I have to tell myself to look at the map, not at him.
“Then the Channel Tunnel. Straightforward enough if we leave on time.” I do my best to match his dead-serious, no-mucking-about tone because if I start thinking about last night again—about the spark in his eyes, the way he looked at me—I’ll never get anything out without sounding like a proper fool.
He nods, eyes still on the map, and I notice the furrow in his brow as he concentrates.
Distracting, that. Every tiny motion, every controlled gesture is throwing me off.
I should be focusing on routes, travel time, logistics.
Instead, I’m thinking about the line of his jaw, the way wisps of pale blond hair fall across his forehead, the subtle flex of his hands around his mug.
I clear my throat, shaking off the mental spiral.
“Pull it together, Hutch,” I hiss under my breath. But something warm curls low in my chest anyway, and I’m caught between wanting to look away and wanting to memorise every detail.
Kip glances up at me, one eyebrow arched. “Did you just tell yourself to pull it together?”
I freeze mid-sip. “No.”
“Sounded like you did.” The faintest hint of a smile flicks across his face, half amusement, half restraint. He looks unfairly good, eyes still heavy with sleep, lips pink from the hot coffee.
I shrug, leaning back in the chair to disguise the fact that my pulse is doing its own bloody race start. “Bit early to be hearing things, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” he says, tracing the edge of the map with his finger. “Or maybe you’re just talking to yourself because you’re sick of my company.”
“Hardly.”
I don’t mean for it to come out that way—rough, too honest—but it’s out before I can reel it in. His eyes dart up, and for a second there’s that same look from last night, quick and searching. Then he looks away, folding the map like it’s the most complicated bit of origami on the planet.
When he’s done messing with the map, he sets it aside and nods toward the buffet in the corner. “You want anything to eat? They’ve got—I think that’s supposed to be eggs.”
I glance over. The tray’s a sad yellow swamp. “I’ll pass. Not much of a breakfast bloke.”
One eyebrow disappears under his bangs. Again. “You’d rather subsist on gas fumes and bad coffee?”
“It’s worked so far.” I drain what’s left in my cup to prove the point.
He shakes his head, eyes rolling. “I’ll grab the bill. You pack up the car?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
But I don’t move. I watch him cross to the counter, sunlight catching in his hair again, and I can’t stop the thought that maybe I’m in trouble here.
Real trouble. Because somewhere between the pit lanes and the backroads, between his ridiculous schedules and my bad driving, I’ve gone and started to like the tosser.