It comes out rough, a promise.
Kip nods, holding the briefing packet like a shield. “Later.”
Then I turn and jog into the noise, my heart full with the knowledge that, for the first time all week, he didn’t run from me.
CHAPTER 20
Kip
Wouldn’t you know it. The one time I desperately need five quiet minutes to sort out whatever the hell that was with Hutch, Grady goes and makes it all the way to Q3 and sticks it fourth on the grid. Second row. His best start yet. Amazing for him. Less amazing for me, the guy who now has to shepherd him through every interview, debrief, photo op, and sponsor handshake the team can cram into a Saturday.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for Grady. He deserves the spotlight. He’s worked his ass off for it. But it means I’m glued to his side for the next few hours instead of tracking down the one person I actually want to talk to.
By the time all that’s finished, the sun is sliding down behind the paddock buildings, and the garage is winding into its nighttime prep rhythm. Half the lights are dimmed, air quieting into a steady hum of tools and clipped conversation.
I spot Hutch once—just once—across the garage floor. He’s wiping down one of the tire guns. I start to move toward him, but someone pulls him into a discussion about setup changes. Then Grady calls my name, and I blink and Hutch is gone.
So much for sorting out anything tonight.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, and before I know it, it’s Sunday, hitting hard and fast.
I come in early, hoping, stupidly, to catch Hutch before things kick into high gear. No chance. The garage is already a pressure cooker, everyone moving double-time. Engineers swarm Grady for the strategy walkthrough, the social media team wants last-minute content, and Grady needs me to keep the stampede from swallowing him whole.
I keep scanning for Hutch anyway. Every time a British accent cuts through the noise, my stupid head snaps up. I don’t see him. Not once.
And fine. It’s race day. He’s got a job to do. I’ve got a job to do.
But every second drags, heavy with unspoken words and unfinished business.
When it’s time for Grady to get behind the wheel, I take my place at the back of the garage, right by the stack of timing monitors. Out of the way, but where I can still follow the action.
The grid forms. The lights go out. And everything shifts into fast forward.
Grady drives the race of his life.
Smart tire management. Clean overtakes. A defensive move into Turn 11 that has the whole garage shouting. Two safety cars, one near miss, and somehow—somehow—he keeps it together. When he crosses the line in P3, his second podium in a row, the place erupts. Mechanics yelling, engineers hugging, the kind of wild, electric joy that shakes the whole building.
I’m caught up in the celebration instantly—handshakes, back slaps, someone shoving a headset at me so I can give Grady some last-minute instructions for the cool-down room and whatever the podium reporters throw at him. It’s bedlam in Technicolor, and I’m swept along, smiling so hard my face might crack.
But under all of it, beneath the roar and the champagne and the pride, there’s that same steady thrum, the one I haven’t been able to shut up since the road.
I need to find Hutch.
And for the first time all weekend, I might actually get the chance.
I push through the maze of bodies—mechanics still buzzing, engineers poring over data, sponsors drifting in with congratulatory grins. Someone tries to hand me a clipboard, someone else asks where Grady’s headed next. I answer on autopilot, nodding, redirecting, doing my job.
But my eyes keep scanning. Searching. Senses on alert for any hint of a British accent in all the commotion.
I move along the back wall, sidestepping a tool cart and ducking past two data guys deep in a heated debate over Grady’s final sector. I keep my head down, slipping through narrow gaps until I reach a clearer line of sight toward the center of the garage.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s off to the right near the tire warmers, their aura painting him in strips of subtle, honeyed light. He’s laughing, a full grin spread across his flushed face, grease smudged across his cheek like a badge of honor. Champagne’s dripping from the cuff of his fireproofs, and he looks ridiculously attractive in a way that should be illegal—exhilarated and alive.
The second his gaze flicks over and finds mine, something in his expression shifts. Not the grin itself, just the reason behind it.
My chest goes hot. My feet are already moving.
