“Wake me when we hit France.” I lean my head against the window.
“You trust me that much?” he asks, half teasing, half surprised.
“Trust might be a strong word,” I murmur, my eyelids heavy. “Just don’t make me regret this.”
His answering laugh is deep and easy, and the last thing I hear before sleep pulls me under is his voice, playful and utterly, unfairly sexy.
“Guess we’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER 4
Hutch
Kip’s out cold. Has been for the better part of an hour, his head resting against the window, mouth barely parted, seatbelt cutting a neat diagonal across his chest.
The van’s rattling its way up the motorway, and he hasn’t stirred once. Impressive, considering the suspension’s shot and the wake of every passing lorry could double as a wind tunnel.
I glance over again, just long enough to take in the crease between his brows. The same one he gets when he’s reviewing a press release or pretending he’s not judging my taste in tunes. Even asleep, he looks determined. Jaw tight, brow furrowed, like he’s in a meeting with his dreams and they’re not sticking to the agenda.
What I absolutely, positively do not notice is the curve of his neck, relaxed for once. Or the faint dimple that appears when he exhales. Or the way he somehow manages to look perfectly put together even slouched in a car seat.
I grip the wheel a fraction harder as the road curves, pretending it’s all about keeping the van straight and not my thoughts veering somewhere they shouldn’t. Kip’s phone,wedged in the cupholder, flashes something about “recalculating,” but I flick it dark.
In my defence, the GPS told me to take the same exit three times before it announced that we’d been “rerouted.” Then there were those somewhat confusing detour signs. But honestly—how hard can it be to find France? The last time I checked a map, it took up more space than half the countries in the EU. Impossible not to stumble across it.
I tap the steering wheel in time with the music—some half-static radio station I found when I got tired of his precious playlist—and let us drift wherever the road decides we’re going. I should probably wake him. But there’s something peaceful about the quiet. No sniping, no perfectly enunciated lectures about efficiency or planning. Just the hum of the road and the occasional snore he’ll deny later.
Miles tick off lazily, the music droning and the van coughing and clanking like it’s doing me a favour by holding together. Kip continues to sleep, blissfully unaware, and I steal the peace while I can, turning over the race’s ups and downs in my head and anticipating the debrief—and the celebration—waiting at headquarters.
Then he wakes up and opens his mouth, spoiling it all.
“Where the hell are we? This isn’t the highway.” He stares down at the phone, blinks hard, and pushes himself upright. “And why is the GPS off?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I say mildly. “You were snoring. I thought I’d spare you the heartbreak of hearing your own playlist again.”
He rubs his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
I turn down the radio, which is producing more static than music now anyway. “The thing was useless. Kept recalculating every five minutes. I followed the detoursigns.”
“Detour signs to where?” His voice jumps half an octave. “Because we’re not on the A35.”
I glance out at the narrow, tree-lined road that’s been getting steadily hillier for the last twenty minutes. “The GPS had me switch motorways near Basel. I figured it was to avoid tolls. But then it started acting up, so I switched it off. Next thing I know, we’re funneled into a detour. It’s not my fault we were rerouted.”
Kip exhales through clenched teeth, the sound halfway between disbelief and fury. “You got off the highway?”
“I was just following the signs,” I mutter. “And for the record, France is a rather large target. Hard to miss. I’m sure we’ll land there eventually.”
He glares at me, hair sticking up on one side, sleep still creasing his cheek. “Are you telling me you’ve managed to miss an entire country?”
“Only temporarily,” I ease off the accelerator as another bend appears. “Look at the silver lining. We’re seeing more of Europe.”
“Wonderful,” he says flatly. “I’ll be sure to include that in my report. ‘Driver’s handler opts for scenic route.’”
“See?” I smile before I can stop myself. “You’re welcome.”
He drags a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I fell asleep for an hour.”
“More like two,” I correct because I’m a glutton for punishment. “You looked peaceful. Call it a public service.”
