Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Roman shut the luggage doors, snapping me from the black hole my brain was stuck in.
“Here we go.” When he looked into my eyes and smiled, it occurred to me that he hadn’t once glimpsed at my boobs. Either he was good at sneaking glances or . . . or I had no idea what to make of that observation . Maybe his preference was for long legs or a sexy ass. If that was the case, I was safe.
But this was new territory for me.
He flicked his hand toward the bus door. “After you.”
“Oh. Ummm, yep.”
God damn , I’d better snap out of this monosyllable shit, or it’s going to be a very long trip.
While Roman settled into the driver’s seat and flicked a switch to close the door, I grabbed the microphone, placed my knee onto my chair, and turned to my new group of tourists.
“Hello again and welcome to Vacation Dreamz. This is the twenty-day European Dreamz tour. So, if you’re on the wrong bus, too bad—you’re stuck with us now.” A few people chuckled, but nobody jumped up and scrambled for the door. It was a good sign.
“Just to be sure, I’ll go through the passenger list. Please raise your hand when I call your name.”
With pen in hand, I started at the top of my list, noting the first passenger was from the United States. “Katie Anderson.”
“Here.” Katie waved, and I marked her name off the list.
Once complete, I tossed the clipboard aside. “Everyone, say hi to our driver, Roman.”
Roman glanced into the rear-view mirror and waved. “ Ciao .”
“Hi Roman,” most of the tourists said in unison.
“Righty-ho, sit back and relax, once we’ve escaped the London chaos, I’ll give you a few more details.”
Some of them cheered as Roman kicked the bus into gear and we set off. The hum of the engine competed with the chatting tourists as we drove through the city. I shifted in my seat so I could watch Roman’s muscles bulge as he turned the steering wheel. If I wanted to, that is.
Which I didn’t.
“So, Red,” he glanced at me. “What’ve we got in store with this group?”
I shot him a what-the-fuck look. “Red?”
“Bruce told me it was your nickname.” A cheeky glimmer danced across his eyes.
I glared at him. “Listen. You may call me Red, however, if you ever call me Dolly Parton, I’ll ram my clipboard up your clacka.”
He blinked at me with a comical expression. “Clacka? I’m guessing that’s Australian.”
“Yep, for up the crack of your ass.”
He burst out laughing. “Right.” He nodded with conviction. “No Dolly Parton jokes. ”
My previous driver had taken to calling me Red within three months of us working together. Lucky me, not only was my hair a frizzy mop, but it was also the color of roasted carrots. So the nickname suited me. And it was a thousand times better than my real name. I’ll never forgive my parents for naming me Daisy Chayne.
My mother said it was beautiful. I say it’s vomit-worthy.
At first it was the flower reference that had instigated my loathing.
But then I learned that a daisy chain is also a sexual position where three or more naked people usually of the same sex . . . well, never mind.
I was a jeans and plain-blouse girl. Practical and simple. That was my designer code.
And I’d never watched a porno and had no intention of watching one either.
So yeah, thanks Mother for the fucked-up name. I’ll take Red any day.
Turning from Roman’s beaming smile, I picked up my clipboard. “We’ve got sixteen men and fourteen women. Seven Americans, five Australians, two from Japan, two from the UK, two South Africans, four Germans, two from Ireland, two from Korea, two from Brazil, one from New Zealand, and one from Sweden.”
“One Swede?”
“Claudette. The brunette in the twelfth row.”
Roman adjusted the mirror, attempting to check her out. People came on a Vacation Dreamz tour for two things: scenery or sex. Sometimes both. Roman, I decided, was here for the latter.
All my younger drivers were the same. At first, they focused a little on the travel. But after doing the same tour every month, seeing the same sights, staying in the same accommodation, their interest turned to the tourists. As soon as they did that, it was like a switch was flicked, and suddenly all available women, single or not, were attracted to them like tourists to cheap cocktails at a tacky tiki bar.
Laughter erupted from the back of the bus. In the mirror above the windshield, the American boys ogled something on Warren’s phone. I inwardly groaned.
I could sniff out the players even with twenty bodies seated between us. One glance at the five men in the back row was enough to predict their motivation for being there . . . sex.
And that meant I had to be on top of my observation and herding skills. Players tended to drift into little corners where they didn’t want to be seen. I hadn’t lost one yet, and that was a track record I intended to keep.
I returned my gaze forward. Roman sat to my left. The bus’s huge wraparound windshield spread from him to me, providing an elevated view of the congested traffic. Rain blasted the windshield in sheets that the wipers swished away with squeaky sweeps. I could barely see ten feet in front.
All morning had been a textbook summer day: mild breezes, clear sky and blazing sunshine, T-shirt temperature. Typical London weather though—it could cycle through three seasons in an hour. “Did you get a weather report?”
Roman looked at me like I’d shoved a bread roll up my nose. “No. It’s not something I can control, so what’s the point?”
My jaw dropped. “What about a traffic report?”
“Same thing. From what Bruce told me, you have never missed the ferry, so it obviously doesn’t matter what the traffic is like.”
It was true. Whether London was gridlocked up to Big Ben or not, every tour, we’d leave around the same time, still take the same ferry and still arrive in Paris sometime between five and six o’clock that night.
But that wasn’t the point. Navigating the traffic was Roman’s job. He should be prepared.
Not happy.
“Well, I checked both. There’s congestion to Docklands, but it looks pretty good from there on. We should have no trouble meeting the midday ferry.” Diverting my eyes from him, my gaze snagged on a man riding a motorcycle without wet-weather gear. His business shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back. I bet he wished he’d read the weather report. I glared at Roman, and he must’ve felt my gaze. “Next time, check the reports.”
He saluted. “Yes, boss.”
Clenching my teeth, I shot a glare at him that could carve ice. “Excuse me?”
“I said, yes, boss. Anyway, Bruce told me you’ve been doing this tour for two and a half years.”
He switched topic so swiftly it caught me off guard. Replaying his words in my head, I reached a reply. “Is that a question?”
“Nope. This is. Don’t you get bored?”
“Bored?” Frowning, I blinked at him. “No. Why would I be bored? I love this job. Every day offers something different.”
“Hmmm. Okay, I get that.” He turned the bus through a set of lights and merged into the M2 traffic. “What about in your downtime? What do you do in your monthly break?”
Roman sure was chatty. I didn’t always like chatty. Especially when my only highlight during my latest ten-day break was losing one of my socks down the back of the dryer.
Deciding against sharing that excitement, I said, “Not much. . . cleaning, reading, catching up on sleep. ”
“Wow.” Frown lines creased his forehead. “You’re an Aussie, right? And you live in London.”
“Yes, and yes. And?” How much had Bruce told him? In contrast, he’d told me nothing about my new driver.
For all I knew he could be a prison escapee.
“If I lived in London, I’d spend every minute checking it out.” His long lashes blinked my way.
“Yeah, well . . .” I flicked my hand wishing I could shoo him away. “I guess I should go out more.”
“So, why don’t you?”
It was a good question. Without a specific answer, I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
That wasn’t entirely true. I had dozens of reasons why I didn’t go out during my breaks. Too tired. Too cold. Too windy. Too wet. I’d rather read romances about women full of confidence, overcoming their worst fears and getting it on with a hot, sexy book-boyfriend. That was my idea of heaven.
I had more excuses than a backpacker had hangovers.
To avoid any more of Roman’s inquisitiveness, I needed to control the conversation. It was a trick I’d learned in my teenage years. People loved to talk about themselves. Keep the questions flowing and they were unlikely to ask any in return. “What did you do before this job?”
His eyes lit up. “Anything. I live in a small town, so I take whatever jobs come my way. Bar and restaurant work. Cleaning. Boatbuilding. Driver. Handyman. You name it, if it pays money, I’ll do it.”
I scrunched my nose. “What made you want this job?”
“One of my sisters owns an Airbnb. She had a New Zealand couple stay who’d just done a Contiki tour and raved about how much fun it was. When I saw the advert for this job, I applied. Never thought I’d get it, though.”
“Oh, why is that? ”
“Living in a small town doesn’t offer great job opportunities, so my resume wasn’t exactly relevant.”
“Where do you live?”
“Manarola. It’s a small fishing village along the Cinque Terre. Have you heard of it?”
I’d seen a lot of Italy, and I knew the Cinque Terre on Italy’s coastline, but the town name didn’t ring any bells. “No.”
“The population is only about three hundred or so. Except in tourist season. It triples in those months. There’s not even a McDonald’s or a Starbucks. Everybody knows everybody.”
It sounded glorious. Except for the everybody knowing everybody bit. “So, what do you do in your spare time?”
“I wish I had spare time. I’m usually helping Mamma. She’s always entertaining. Long lunches. Big family dinners. I’m sure you know.”
I couldn’t even imagine the scenario. My mother never had friends over. Not female friends anyway. And never to share a meal. “You’re lucky. My mother’s culinary skills consisted of cooking meals that came in a box and required just a microwave and a fork.”
Many of the trailers we lived in didn’t even have an oven. Thankfully TV dinners were a thing, or I’d likely have had Coco Pops for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Jeez, I can’t imagine it. My mamma is the opposite. Every meal is a grand event. Some meals take a whole week to prepare.”
It sounded wonderful. I hadn’t thought of my childhood meals as unusual until my first boyfriend, William, had invited me to dinner with his parents. We’d sat down together to eat roast pork and vegetables that his mother had made herself. That meal alone had blown my mind. Before the pictures of William swirling across my mind made my heart swell until it exploded into a painful mess, I asked Roman another question. “Do your sisters help?”
He huffed. “No. They’re all married with many bambini , so they’re always busy.”
“You’ve got a big family, huh?”
He smiled, and for the first time since I’d met him, it seemed genuine. “ Si . Six nieces and seven nephews.”
“Woah. They’ve been busy.” My family consisted of just three people, and even that was a lie.
“Yeah, Sunday night dinner is chaos. And Mamma. . . she’s crazy.” He slapped his forehead. “She wanted everything clean. Even vacuuming under the sofa. No idea why. Only Pesto and Saucy see under there.”
I blinked at him.
He flashed his model-worthy smile. “Our cats. It’s a wonder they fit under the sofa; they’re enormous. Mamma feeds them all the leftovers.”
He chuckled, but as I laughed along with him, I reflected on my childhood. My mother’s housework regime was non-existent. So much so, that eventually the cleaning would be beyond salvaging, and she’d announce it was time to move again.
As Roman guided our bus through a roundabout and onto the A2 motorway, my mind snagged on a long-forgotten memory. “I wasn’t allowed pets.”
“Oh really?”
“Mother said it was just another bloody mouth to feed.”
“We’ve had heaps. Dogs, cats, birds. I had pet mice for a while, Mamma hated them.”
“I did have a stray cat once, Princess. I managed to hide her for a while. But then we moved.” I recalled crying so hard as I’d waved goodbye to Princess through the car’s rear window. Maybe that was when I’d started to hate my mother .
Before I tumbled into that hell, I said, “What does your dad do for a living?”
“Papà?” Roman’s grin grew even bigger. “He’s retired. Spends all his time fishing. He claims it’s to feed everyone, but I think it’s his tactic to get away from all of us.”
“Aren’t you doing the same by taking this job?”
“ Si , you could say that. But even though there are always things going on, and people coming over, small-town life can get claustrophobic.” He met my gaze and shrugged. “I still love them.”
His relationship with his parents and the rest of his extended family was something I thought only happened in those wholesome Disney movies. I slouched in my seat, settling into the bus’s repetitive motion.
My whole life had been sculpted around uncertainty. But the one thing I did know when I left Melbourne years ago was that I had to get away. And the farther, the better. I couldn’t be around William anymore. Or the whispers that abounded every time I walked into a room. Or every fucking item in the apartment we’d shared together for years.
It had been time for me to find myself. So, I took off and never looked back.
Shit. In six months, I will have to go back. And I still haven’t found myself. Oh, God.
Roman turned to me with raised eyebrows. “You okay?”
Crap . I must’ve groaned or something. “What? Yep, I’m fine.”
“What’re you thinking about?” Roman’s intense gaze made my chest squeeze.
“Oh ummm.” Jeez. This was the trouble with a chatty driver. I didn’t want to talk about that letter, and there was no way I was going to discuss my ex. I racked my brain for something witty to say.
“Come on, tell me.” He flicked his visor down to shield his eyes from a bolt of sunlight that suddenly carved through the clouds. “We’ve got nothing else to do.”
Shit. “Are you always this chatty?”
“No. With all the women in my family, I rarely get a word in.”
“Well, you’re making up for it now.”
He huffed. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t want to talk.”
Rolling my eyes his way, I huffed out a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk. It’s just . . . I have a lot on my mind.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.” He settled into his seat and readjusted his hands on the wheel. He gave me the impression he could wait forever. I’m in trouble.
Deciding to capitalize on his momentary silence, I plucked my phone from my bag and sent a text to the one person in the world who could save my sanity. Azalia.
Hey Zali, you awake?
Her reply came in a flash.
Of course. Kane is teething. I can’t remember the last time I slept. What’s up?
Shit.
My best friend was once a beauty therapist with the world at her feet but is now a single mom to a one-year-old and the full-time carer of her mother who has dementia. And here I am about to complain about Mr. Chatty who’s hotter than fuck. Worst best friend ever.
Just checking how you’re doing?
Cryptic. Sounds to me like something is going on .
The day Azalia had tossed her bag onto the bunk above me on the cruise ship we worked on was the best day of my life. She was a freak though; sometimes I wondered if she could read my mind.
I’m fine
Fine. Hmmm, let me guess. Oh, it’s the first day of the month. Asshole boss or new driver?
Wow, am I that predictable?
Yes. Now spill it. Which one is it?
“Who are you texting?”
I jumped at Roman’s voice.
“Your mamma?”
“What? No.” I shot him a horrified glare. “Why would you think that?”
He jerked back. “Okay, so not your mamma. With most women it’s either their madre , partner, or bestie. I took a gamble.”
“Yeah, well, you gambled the wrong way.”
“Okay. Jeez. What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Your friend.” He wobbled his head like I was an idiot.
“Oh. Azalia.”
“Azalia and Daisy. Two flowers. That’s funny.”
It surprised me that he knew what an Azalia was. Interesting. I glanced away from him to my buzzing phone.
Kane just puked all over me, so give me something to escape this shit
Sorry, babe, new driver. Never shuts up
Arghhh. Tell me about him
“Tell me about her,” Roman said. “Where’d you meet?”
Jeez . I’ve fallen into a rabbit hole.
Roman fluttered his long lashes in a move that I’m sure impressed most women.
I’m not like most women. “When I first left Australia, I worked on a cruise ship, the Sea Dancer. We shared a cabin.”
“That sounds so cool.”
My phone buzzed.
Waiting!
Sorry. He’s Italian
Italian! So . . . tall dark and handsome. Or hairy and fat
I burst out laughing.
“What?” Roman’s smile was so real that I had the crazy impression he liked what he saw. I wanted to slap myself. A man like Roman did not find a woman like me appealing. He’d just mastered the art of womanizing, that’s all.
But when his smile lingered, my insides did some kind of weird flutter thing that had me squirming on the seat.
“What?” he repeated.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Are you telling her about me?”
“What? No,” I blurted.
“That’s a yes then,” he said, deadpan.
“No, it isn’t.” I cocked my head. “I said no.”
“Verbally, you said no. But the rest of you. . .” he waved his finger at me, “said yes.”
I scrunched my face. “What are you? Some kind of psychic? ”
“Nope. Just a younger brother. Trust me, four older sisters are all the psychic training I need. Women are crazy.”
“Oh, women are crazy? I’m yet to meet a man who’s completely sane.”
My phone buzzed.
Just send me a photo. I’ll decide
No way
Answer me then. Hot or hairy?
I swallowed a chuckle.
OK! He’s not hairy
Now I really need a photo
“What are you saying about me?” Roman jabbed his chiseled jaw my way.
“Jesus! Will you stop it? I’m not talking about you.”
“Really. What then? Sharing TV dinner secrets?”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. “Okay, if you must know, Zali is a single mom. Her baby just puked all over her, and I was seeing if she’s okay.”
“Ah, shit. I’m sorry.” He slumped in his chair. “It’s none of my business.”
Oh, God . Now I felt rotten. “And she was asking about you.”
“Aha! I knew it. What’d you say?”
A smile wobbled across my lips. “I said you were a hairy Italian who never stops talking.”
Roman burst into a laugh that was both sexy and contagious. “Hairy Italian? That’s it! Remind me never to ask you to write in a condolence card.”
I scrunched up my face. “That’s a bit morbid. ”
He shrugged. “Living in a small town has its drawbacks when you know everybody and most of the population is old, we go to funerals at least twice a month. Can’t always rely on the wisdom in a Hallmark card.”
And just like that, Roman switched from womanizer to something else. I just needed to work out what that something else was.
I glanced down at my buzzing phone.
At least tell me what color his eyes are
“What’s Azalia saying now?”
I scowled at him. “You’re nosy. You know that?”
“ Si . Blame my family. Everybody has their nose in everybody’s business.”
“So, you know how annoying it is, then?”
“Oh, come on.” He waved a hand. “We can’t just sit here and stare out the window.”
“Ahhh, actually, we can.”
“Well, yes, but that would be boring.” As he turned his attention to navigating the bus through a toll checkpoint, I studied him. I guessed his age at about twenty-five. He was clean-shaven, showing off his dimpled chin. His defined lips were the color of a cherry popsicle, and his olive skin was flawless.
If I put every sexy attribute I could think of for a man into a computer, it would spit out a composite image of Roman.
How was it that one man could be so lucky, and I be the exact opposite?
It was a sick joke that I’d be spending my final tours with Vacation Dreamz sitting next to a man who was more beautiful than anybody I’d ever met.