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 alwaysjust 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.
