He rolls his eyes. “Dude. Look at me and Ben.”
My stomach lurches. “That’s different.”
“Why? Because we’ve been together longer?” He shakes his head. “No one on this team gave a shit when we made it official. Not one person. Hell, half of them were relieved because it stopped us from sniping at each other during debriefs.”
I can’t help the ghost of a smile. “Debatable.”
“My point,” he says, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “is that nobody cares who anyone around here is dating. Or not dating. If you and Hutch, I don’t know, figured something out on that trip, no one’sgoing to blink.”
I look down at the passes on my desk, throat tight. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Grady agrees, his tone gentler now. “But don’t tie yourself in knots on our account. You’ve got a whole team that will back you no matter what. Me and Ben included.”
I swallow hard, something unsteady moving behind my ribs.
Grady nudges my shoulder. “Just saying, if you want him, you don’t have to act like you don’t. The rest is his call.”
He straightens, switching back into media mode with a clap of his hands.
“Now come on. We’ve got cameras waiting to misquote us.”
I follow him out, trying not to think about how much I wish the rest really was that simple. Just ask him. Clear the air. Problem solved.
Except that would mean putting words to something Hutch hasn’t, and maybe doesn’t want to. It would mean risking the look on his face if I’ve read all of this wrong. And once I admit how much I want him, there’s no walking that back.
CHAPTER 19
Hutch
Qualification day—or quali day as the pit crew likes to call it—is always hectic in the paddock, no more so than in the team’s garage. Mechanics shouting torque numbers, engineers waving tablet screens at anyone who’ll stand still, tyres lined like soldiers ready for battle. It’s barely managed mayhem, the kind you only survive by keeping your head down and your nerves in check.
Only today, mine aren’t anywhere close to being in check.
Because I’ve spent the entire week and a half between returning from Shanghai and heading off to Imola pretending nothing happened between me and Kip. Pretending I don’t notice him every time he walks into a room. Pretending I didn’t make a complete idiot of myself trekking up to the PR office three times a day for excuses even I didn’t believe.
And now he’s avoiding me. Not aggressively. He’s too polite for that. But with enough distance to tell me he’s hiding behind it.
So before I’m knee-deep in soft compounds and assaulted by air guns screaming in my ears, I catch him.
He’s at the back of the garage, half-wedged between a merch cart and a stack of spare nose cones, flipping through a briefing packet like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. It isn’t. He’s avoiding my eyes before I’m even close.
“Kip.”
He freezes. Doesn’t look up.
I step closer, enough to smell his shampoo. Minty-clean and unfairly distracting. “We’re not doing this. Not today.”
He exhales. “Doing what?”
“This.” I flick a hand between us. “Pretending we’re fine when we’re not. Pretending last week was—” My throat tightens around the words. “Nothing.”
He finally looks at me, and the flicker in his eyes nearly knocks me off my feet.
“If it was just the road,” I say, keeping my voice low so no one else can hear us, not that anyone’s paying us a lick of attention with all the race prep going on, “tell me now.”
The garage noise swells behind us—air guns, chatter, the rising bustle of everyone getting ready. I silently plead for him to answer quickly, give me something I can walk away with before qualis so I can concentrate and not muck up the team’s chances for a spot at the front of the grid.
He doesn’t, so I press him again.
