Chapter 11
Kip
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
The patter of rain on the roof fills the van, making the stalled engine feel even quieter. Out on the empty French highway, our hazard lights blink uselessly, their click-clicking a metronome counting down my patience.
Hutch leans forward, turning the key again. The engine wheezes once, twice, then gives up completely.
“She’s done for,” he says, maddeningly calm.
My fingers curl into my palm. “We were supposed to be in Calais by dark. I have two marketing calls, a briefing with the team manager, the sponsor dinner tomorrow night—” I wave vaguely toward the dashboard. “And now we’re stranded in rural France.”
“There was a village a few miles back,” Hutch says matter-of-factly. “Proper countryside charm.”
“Great. Maybe they can tow us there on a farm tractor.”
He doesn’t rise to my bait, just pops his seatbelt and climbs out, raindrops dotting his sweatshirt. I sit for a beat, watching him through the window as he props the hood open and leans in like he’s negotiating with the damn thing. The hazard lights keep blinking. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Finally, I shove my door open and step out into the drizzle. “Please tell me you can fix it.”
He glances at me over the hood, hair dripping into his eyes. “Depends how you feel about miracles.”
“Hutch.”
“All right, all right.” He ducks back under the hood. “Looks like the alternator’s had it. Starter’s probably on its last legs, too. I can tinker all I want, but she’s not going anywhere under her own power.”
I let out a groan that fogs in the damp air. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Could be worse.” He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re not on fire.”
“Yet.”
He grins at that, quick and infuriatingly good-natured. “I’ll ring for a tow. Think I saw a sign for a garage in that village back there. Shouldn’t be too hard to find the number.”
“Assuming we can get a signal.”
He holds up his phone. “One bar. Not exactly sterling, but it’ll do.”
“And what’s the plan when they answer in French? Put on your best sweet-talking voice and hope for the best?”
He shoots me a sidelong look, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve charmed my way out of trouble.”
While he dials, I lean against the van, rain seeping into my shirt. The road stretches endlessly in both directions, glossy and gray, and the fields beyond are nothing but mist and mud. A truck thunders past, rocking the van in its wake.
Hutch finishes the call with a shrug. “Tow will be here in about half an hour. The garage will have a look once we get there, but they’ll likely need to order parts. Doubt they’ll have it sorted before tomorrow. They said there’s an inn down the road.”
I stare at him. “Tomorrow?”
He casually pockets his phone. “’Fraid so. Could be worse. At least there’s an inn.”
“Shouldn’t we call the rental car agency? Maybe they could get us a replacement sooner.”
Hutch glances down the road, scanning the horizon. “We’ll do that once we get to the garage, but I doubt there’s an office way out here. They’ll probably just cover parts and labor and send us on our way.”
I drag a hand through my rain-slicked hair, already picturing my calendar combusting. “Silverstone’s less than five hours away. We were so close.”
Hutch straightens, droplets clinging to his jaw.
“And yet, here we are.” He closes the hood with a final-sounding thunk. “No sense shouting at the van about it. She’s had enough abuse for one day.”
I let out a tight breath, rain pattering harder against the pavement. “You’re unreasonably calm about this.”
He shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his damp jeans. “Getting worked up won’t magic the thing back to life, will it?”
“That’s not the point. I’ve got—” I tick off on my fingers, water dripping from my sleeve. “—two press calls, a logistics meeting, a dozen emails I was supposed to answer before we even left Germany—”
Hutch lets out a little snort and shakes his head. “And yet here you are, in a muddy lay-by in the middle of France. Life’s funny like that.”
I glare at him, but it only earns me a small, maddeningly patient nod toward the van.
“Come on,” he says. “No point catching pneumonia on top of everything else.”
We climb back inside, dripping and miserable. The rain drums steadily on the roof, the sound both relentless and weirdly soothing.
I slump in my seat, head tipping back against the rest. “This is a nightmare.”
“Nah,” Hutch says, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms. “Just a delay. Nightmares involve fire or clowns or running out of petrol in Birmingham.”
I close my eyes because arguing with him seems pointless. “Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable?”
“Once or twice,” he says, his a trace of dry humor in his voice. “But I’m usually right.”