“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.”
CHAPTER 12
Hutch
By the time the tow truck pulls up, the rain’s more of a half-hearted sprinkle than anything else. The clouds hang low and heavy, the air thick with that washed-clean scent you only get after a long soak. The driver’s a compact bloke in oil-stained overalls who speaks about three words of English, but between my broken French, a lot of pointing, and Kip’s increasingly short fuse, we manage to get the van winched onto the back of his lorry.
Kip watches it go up, arms folded, the picture of restrained fury. When the driver waves us toward the cab, Kip hesitates, probably preferring to walk to Silverstone barefoot, but even he’s not stubborn enough to turn down the only lift we’re likely to get.
The ride’s short, ten minutes, give or take, but it seems to stretch out forever. The springs in the bench seat jab through the padding, and the wipers squeak in an uneven rhythm that could drive a man to drink. Kip keeps his eyes on the window, shoulders stiff, probably composing the angry emails he’ll send the second we’re back in civilisation.
The garage is a squat building at the edge of yet another sleepy village, with half-shuttered shops and a bakery that’s definitely closed for the afternoon. The mechanic takes one look under the bonnet, mutters “pièces demain,” and shrugs.
Tomorrow for parts, then. Brilliant. A call to the rental car agency confirms what I suspected—no branch within fifty miles, no replacement vehicle coming to rescue us. They’ll cover the repairs and call it even.
I turn to Kip. “Well. That’s that. He said the inn is about a ten-minute walk that way.”
I point vaguely down the lane that winds out of the village. He just stares at me, bangs plastered to his forehead.
“You’re joking.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We grab our bags out of the van and walk in silence, the drizzle barely clinging to our jackets now, until the inn comes into view, a squat stone building with ivy climbing up one side and a sign that squeaks every time the wind catches it. But inside it’s welcoming and homey, the air rich with the aroma of simmering soup and timeworn timber.
The woman behind the desk smiles kindly, says something in French about “une chambre,” and slides over a single key. One room. Guess we’re sharing again.
Kip doesn’t say anything as we climb the narrow stairs, gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping. A row of mismatched brass sconces casts uneven shadows, and our footsteps creak over the old floorboards as we walk down the hallway to our room. When I push open the door at the end, I can’t help the laugh that escapes.
“One bed,” I say. “Cosy.”
Kip stops dead in the doorway. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s only one night,” I offer, dropping my bag on the chairby the window. “We’ve shared worse. After last night’s accommodations, this is practically five stars.”
“That was a twin room,” he snaps. “With separate beds.”
