Chapter 9
Kip
The air’s thick with the scent of onions and wine, something slow cooked and comforting, mingled with damp wool and woodsmoke. My shoes squeak on the stone floor as we step inside, rain dripping from our sleeves. Hutch shakes out his hair like a dog and grins when I roll my eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, posh boy. You’re the one who said to run for it.”
I brush water off my sleeves and glance around.
It’s dim but welcoming, with dark beams, brass taps, and a chalkboard scrawled in French—Plat du Jour: Quiche Lorraine et Salade Verte.
A fire crackles in the grate, more for atmosphere than warmth, casting the whole place in an amber haze.
Judging by the half-empty glasses and the murmur of voices, it’s late enough that lunch has blended into afternoon drinking.
Hutch steers us to a table near the window, where rain snakes down the glass in long, silver streaks.
“You all right?” he asks as we sit.
“Fine,” I say, even though my heart is still pounding from our race to the door. “Just trying to remember the last time I earned a meal this hard.”
He flags down the barmaid, eyes sparkling with the promise—or the threat—of a comeback he’s saving for later. “Two pints, yeah? Unless you’re on the clock.”
“Technically, I’m always on the clock,” I say, but I nod anyway. What the hell. It’s only one beer. And it’s not as if I’m performing open heart surgery.
The barmaid sets down two pints, the foam curling over the edges. I take a big gulp, letting the buzz spread. Hutch watches me, eyebrows slightly raised, as if reading some unspoken challenge.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.
“Cheers,” I echo, taking another sip.
Outside, the rain lashes the windows. Inside, the pub is quiet but alive—the subdued chatter of other diners, the occasional clink of cutlery.
The barmaid returns, and we both order the daily special.
When she’s gone, Hutch leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, eyes fixed on me with that exasperating ease that makes my chest tighten.
“Something on your mind?” I ask.
He tilts his chair forward, elbows on the table. “Didn’t have us ordering quiche in a country pub on my bingo card.”
I arch a brow. “It’s French. We’re in France.”
“Yeah, but you say it like you’ve never eaten carbs before noon.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile slips out anyway. “I’ll have you know, I’m very pro–carbs when properly motivated.”
He laughs, deep and unforced, the sound threading under my skin. The barmaid bring us two generous wedges of quiche, golden and steaming. It’s warm, rich with bacon and cheese, and I swear I’ve never tasted anything so good.
“Not bad, eh?” Hutch says around a mouthful.
“It’ll do.” I spear another bite with my fork, pretending to study it. “Though I’m starting to think you’d eat anything if it came with a pint.”
“Fair point.” He lifts his glass.
We eat without rushing, the kind of quiet that’s not awkward at all. Outside, the rain eases from a monsoon to a light but unrelenting curtain. When the plates are cleared, Hutch nods toward the foosball table in the corner, worn and shining in places from years of use. “Fancy a game?”
“You’re joking,” I say.
Hutch’s mouth quirks. “Afraid not. Come on, Carmichael. Time to see if your coordination extends beyond a keyboard.”
Before I can protest, he’s already at the machine, digging a coin out of his pocket and dropping it into the slot. The rods rattle as the balls clatter into place.
I sigh and take my position opposite him. “Just so we’re clear, I’m only doing this because I’ve been sitting for six hours.”
We start, and it’s an immediate free-for-all—spinning rods, clacking plastic, both of us laughing too hard to take it seriously. He’s annoyingly good, of course. Every goal he scores, he gives me a smug, teasing look that practically screams I’m barely trying and rubbing it in.
By the time he wins 5–3—and yeah, I’m as amazed as the next guy that I managed three goals—I’m flushed and breathless and probably looking way too pleased for a guy who just lost.
“I won’t be putting that on my resume any time soon,” I joke. “International defeat at foosball.”
“File it under team bonding.” He pulls another coin out of his pocket. “Rematch? Winner gets the next round.”
I’m about to tell him that the rain seems to have slowed a little and it’s probably time we hit the road again when the jukebox on the far wall crackles to life.
Someone’s put on a bubble-gummy pop song I recognize from the credits of an early 2010s romcom.
A couple near the bar takes it as their cue to start dancing, not well, but with the kind of commitment that almost makes it work.
Hutch follows my gaze, grinning. “What do you say? Fancy showing them how it’s done?”
There are two possibilities here: one, he’s aggressively straight and very comfortable with it. Two—
I refuse to entertain number two.
I snort. “Not a chance. I don’t dance.”
“Sure you do. Everyone dances.” He abandons the foosball handles, turning to me with a playful glint that I know means trouble. “Come on, Carmichael. Let loose a little. Burn some energy before we’re trapped in the van for another five hours.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, but he’s already holding out a hand, that damned spark in his eyes daring me to take it.
“Work with me here,” Hutch coaxes. “You can’t tell me you’ve never danced in a pub before.”
“I can, actually. With great pride.”
“Then it’s time to fix that.” He takes my wrist before I can retreat, his palm strong and calloused, and for a second, I forget how to move at all.
Then I’m being tugged toward the makeshift dance floor in the open space near the bar.
The couple who started it all is spinning wildly, laughing, oblivious to rhythm.
The song is fast, infectious, impossible to completely resist.
Hutch starts moving. Nothing fancy, just a loose bounce of his shoulders, an occasional finger snap, a spin move that should look ridiculous but he somehow manages to pull off with style. I cross my arms, trying not to smile.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I tell him.
“Obviously. And you’re about to enjoy it with me.”
“I told you, I don’t dance.”
“You survive weekends with a race car driver. You can dance.”
He twirls in place to make his point, and something in me cracks. I step forward and give in to the beat, awkwardly at first. Hutch whoops like I’ve agreed to cliff dive.
“That’s more like it,” he says, circling me once, his laughter bubbling up and catching in my chest. “Told you it wouldn’t kill you.”
“It might yet. The day’s still young.”
The song fades, and without pause, the next one slides in, a smooth, lazy croon that makes the distance between us seem to shrink. Hutch’s grin gives way to something quieter, and goosebumps rise along my arms in response.
He doesn’t step closer, not at first. Just sways where he is, hands tucked into his back pockets, letting the music decide what happens next.
I tell myself to laugh it off and go grab my pint, but his gaze catches mine, steady and unreadable, and whatever clever line I was about to say completely deserts me.
“Guess we’re past the warm-up act,” he says quietly.
I swallow, trying for lightness. “You planning to dip me next?”
“Tempting.” His voice is still fluid, still laced with humor, but there’s something under it now. Something I can’t name.
He steps in, just a hair. I can smell the rain clinging to him, a faint trace of soap and engine oil beneath it. My pulse jumps, annoyingly loud in my ears.
“This is the part,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down and back up, “where you’re supposed to stop overthinking.”
I don’t move. Not away, not closer. Because for one dizzy heartbeat, I can’t tell if he’s teasing me, testing me—or if he means it.
My brain scrambles to make sense of it. Of him. The laid-back charm, the lingering looks, the way he’s somehow always just close enough to set my every nerve on edge. I didn’t think Hutch was into guys. Didn’t think he’d ever look at me like that.
And yet, right now, he is. At least, I’m pretty sure he is. Which feels a lot like possibility number two, the one I refused to consider. Either that or I’ve seriously misunderstood the assignment.
The world seems to narrow to our small orbit and the slow sway of the song. Then my phone blares the F1 theme, my designated ringtone for anyone connected with work, slicing through the moment like a starter pistol.
I startle. Hutch blinks, the spell breaking, and steps back with a throaty chuckle. “Saved by the bell, eh?”
I fish out my phone, still half breathless even though I haven’t done anything remotely athletic. Unless bad dancing counts as cardio.
Grady’s name flashes on the screen. Of course.
“Work?” Hutch asks, his voice rougher than before.
“Yeah.” I swipe to answer, forcing air back into my lungs. “Hey, Grady.”
“Finally,” comes his voice, clipped and too loud. “Where are you? Ben says Hutch hasn’t checked in since this morning.”
“He’s fine,” I say, glancing at Hutch, who’s back at our table busy draining the rest of his pint. “We hit some weather and pulled over to wait it out.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just rain.”
“Good. Well, get a move on. Jacques wants everyone in Silverstone for the sponsor dinner tomorrow night.”
“Right. Got it.” I hang up before he can ask anything else and join Hutch at our table.
He raises an eyebrow. “What did your boss want?”
I fill him in, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
He nods, pushing his chair back. “Then we’d better make tracks.”
He tosses a few euros onto the table, grabs his jacket, and flashes me that self-assured grin again, the one that hides more than it gives away. “Come on, Carmichael. Before our bosses send out a search party.”