Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Maisie King nudged her backpack farther beneath the seat in front of her, grateful to have both the front row and the one behind her entirely vacant.
She would miss Aunt Daphne on the tour today, but she couldn’t deny how nice it was going to be to have more space than she would with her aunt’s belongings encroaching on her own area.
They had been on some insanely full European tours together over the last few months, each bus more cramped than the last. But this was the first one where Maisie could actually breathe her own air.
Still, there was no such thing as too much space when traveling, so she continued pushing her backpack farther and farther beneath the seat until she could stretch out her legs without getting tangled in the straps.
After another swift kick, the backpack fell into place, and Maisie delivered a contented sigh that was muted only by the sounds of the Irish music playing happily throughout the bus.
With growing satisfaction, she eyed her makeshift home-away-from-home. Her blow-up pillow had been puffed up to the side of her, her small fleece blanket had been unfurled across her lap, and her pink car organizer—decorated with cute faces of round pigs—was stuffed with treats, snacks, electronics, and other comforts as it hung from the back of the headrest in front of the empty seat to the side of her.
Aunt Daphne had poked fun at Maisie and her traveling quirks over the last few months, and Maisie had received countless funny looks from various passengers guffawing at the home base she made for herself on each tour.
But by the end of every single trip, the judgy looks would always subside as Maisie was continually found silently resting, comfortably sitting, or happily beaming away in delighted luxury.
This trip would be no different. Even now, the middle-aged couple across the aisle from her who had been watching her on and off since she’d scurried her way onto the bus were smiling at her with bright eyes. They were probably taking notes for their next tour.
Or so Maisie chose to believe. There was no space for the Fear of People’s Opinions on this trip. Comfort over FOPO. That was her motto.
And comfortable, she was.
Traveling wasn’t her favorite thing to do in the world. But she always did what she could to make a poor situation better. Leaning back in her seat, she stared out of the window at the red-bricked buildings they passed by and the black cabs zooming ahead of their bus.
Now that she was officially settled, all there was left to do was sit back and enjoy her two-week tour around Northern Ireland. She’d been waiting for the last leg of their journey for months now—a fact Aunt Daphne could never understand.
“You do know everything that we’ve seen so far, right, Maisie?” she’d asked time and time again. “We’ve been across the whole of Europe, and yet, the thing you’re looking forward to seeing most is Northern Ireland?”
Maisie only ever shrugged in response. She couldn’t help it. She’d always wanted to see the land of her ancestry. She wanted to see what they saw, eat what they ate. Granted, she’d never known her great-great-great-grandparents personally and knew very little of their lives in Northern Ireland, but she was drawn to the land all the same.
She was only grateful she’d been able to convince Daphne to add the country to their full itinerary.
At the thought of her aunt, Maisie felt a twinge of disappointment. They were supposed to be together today, as they had been since their first flight from Massachusetts to Spain four months before. But the investors and creditors for Daphne’s latest business pursuit—this time a multicultural soup and bread restaurant she was planning to open in Boston—had been champing at the bit for more information about Daphne’s plans, and she’d been unable to shake them any longer.
“I have to take these calls,” she’d said that morning with a more harried look than usual. “I’ll meet you in Ballycastle tonight and we can catch up on all that you saw.”
Maisie had instantly protested. She didn’t want to go on a bus tour alone. But Daphne had insisted. Her aunt had always devoted a hundred percent into every business she created, whether it was a virtual fitness studio or an upscale fashion boutique. She didn’t love food like Maisie did—nor did she have a degree in culinary arts, like Maisie—but the business side of opening a restaurant had been too appealing to pass up, which was why Daphne hadn’t batted an eye in staying behind to focus on what needed to be done.
“You’re my food consultant and menu developer, Maisie,” she’d pressed that morning. “ You have to continue your research here.”
Knowing Daphne wouldn’t take no for an answer, Maisie had finally caved. She had allowed her aunt to bring the rest of her luggage to Ballycastle for that night, then raced out of the hotel door faster than when she used to catch hogs that had escaped from their pen at her family ranch in North Dakota.
She missed home more than she could express. And traveling around Europe had been utterly exhausting .
But being here in Northern Ireland? Let’s just say she was more than happy she had gotten on the bus that morning, even if she had to go at it alone, because this tour was already shaping up to be fantastic.
Of course, that was in large part due to the very charming, very good-looking, very Northern-Irish man driving the bus at that moment.
Without permission, her eyes wandered again toward the driver’s seat, hoping to be treated to another sight of Finn O’Meara.
From where she sat halfway between the front and the back of the bus, she could only see the upper half of his face, but each time the vehicle drove over a divot in the road, his seat bounced up and down, allowing her to see more of his flat cap, dark eyes, and scruff-covered jaw.
Out of all the tour guides and bus drivers Maisie had experienced across France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, Poland, Switzerland, and Sweden, Finn had already won the “Most Attractive Bus Driver” award. The jury was still out on the “Best Tour Guide Overall”—France’s was pretty spectacular—but he was definitely in the running for “Funniest Guide,” what with the way he’d handled running into that curb earlier.
She probably should be more concerned that the guy’s job was literally to drive a bus, and yet within the first thirty seconds of their journey, he’d already managed to mount a curb. But they were bound to cut a few corners now and then with what a mammoth that burnt-orange, thirty-four-seater bus was.
The bus’s brakes pierced the air with a high-pitched squealing as Finn slowed down at a roundabout, checking that traffic was clear before making a turn that brought them farther out of the city. As he spun the steering wheel round and round, Maisie’s gaze swept across his sweater that pulled nicely over his lean shoulders.
Who knew driving a bus could be so alluring?
But then, she wasn’t in Northern Ireland to admire anyone’s ability to maneuver a tank around the tight roads of a country, no matter how impressive it was. She was there to admire the country itself.
And, of course, the country’s food.
At the thought, her heart leapt with anticipation. It was time for breakfast—her second favorite part of the day, preceded only by dinner and followed closely by lunch. Then there was dessert, but that was in another category entirely.
Finally managing to tear her gaze away from Finn, she opened the paper sack beside her and pulled out the food that had made her precisely five minutes tardier than she would have been had she not stopped for something to eat.
As much as she didn’t like to be late to things—bus tours included—nothing could have prevented her from simply walking past the mouth-watering scent permeating from a nearby bakery that morning without grabbing something for herself.
Even now, the scent of bacon and warm, buttered bread wafted toward her nose, and she blew out an anticipatory sigh.
She and Daphne had arrived late last night in Belfast after a long flight from Sweden. With only airplane food for dinner and nothing but snacks since, Maisie was dying for some delicious, freshly baked goods.
And oh, was this bacon butty the stuff of dreams.
She took bite after bite, closing her eyes and shaking her head with each one before pulling out her small notepad from her organizer and jotting down a few notes.
This sandwich wouldn’t really fit with Daphne’s soup and bread restaurant, but Maisie would be stupid if she forgot to make this for herself when she got home—hence the entry in her journal.
A crackling sounded overhead, and the Irish music clicked off before the driver’s voice echoed down the bus. Maisie lifted her black pen from her notepad, pausing in her work to listen .
“All right, we’re officially on our way, ladies and gents,” he said, his accent so thick, Maisie had to strain to understand him. “As you can see, Belfast is flyin’ past us, but before I mention a few of the things we’re about to drive by, I did forget to mention one rule.”
He paused, his chair bouncing up and down as they drove over an empty crosswalk.
“Food is, of course, permitted on me bus. However,” he said, “should any of you bring somethin’ that smells as delicious as, let’s say, a bacon butty…”
Maisie stopped chewing, heat flooding her cheeks.
“The rule is,” he continued, “you have to bring enough to share with the group—or at least with me.” His eyes remained on the road as he went on. “Consider it a wee tax. It’s only fair, seein’ as how I’m the driver and have to suffer with such a delicious smell, all while bein’ unable to partake meself.”
Maisie looked around, a few of the people on the bus glancing back at her with amused grins, pegging her as the culprit already. As if her puffed-out, squirrel-like, reddened cheeks weren’t incriminating enough, the bacon butty in her hand was a dead giveaway.
Obviously, Finn was teasing, and no one looked offended at the smell of her breakfast. But how could she not have thought through the fact that the scent of the bacon would permeate the entire bus?
Curse this delicious food. She’d been charmed by its scent and its taste so greatly, she’d been completely oblivious to anything and everything else around her. Of course, it wasn’t the first time food had done that to her, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
She tried to chew swiftly, anxious to swallow the condemning evidence, but Finn continued.
“So,” he began, “let’s have it. To the owner of that class bacon butty, be a decent spud and let me know who you are so I can accept me tax.”
Maisie didn’t have to wonder long if Finn really didn’t know who had the butty, as his eyes found hers in the rearview mirror in an instant, and they twinkled with knowing pleasure.
Now what was Maisie to do? Because as charming as this guy was, nothing was going to pry this divine food from her hands.
Nothing at all.