Chapter Two
THOUGHTS OF MR. ABSOLUTELY -Improper-After-All still weigh on my mind as the bus driver scans my $150 ticket before stepping aside with a tip of his hat. "Welcome aboard, ma'am."
His gentle smile catches me off guard, and I awkwardly mutter 'thank you' under my breath. I can't remember the last time I ever had someone smile at me like that. Is it because I've changed? Is it because I'm now broke that I'm not as "cold" and "unapproachable" as people often told me I was?
I step onto the bus, clutching my small bag to my chest as if it contains all my worldly possessions—which, in a way, it does. Everything that mattered from my old life is gone now. Stolen, just like my dignity.
And... wow .
This, just like Via's bus station lobby, is unlike anything I've seen in movies. Wood paneling for the walls and overhead cabins. A toiletry kit that includes a toothbrush set, an eye mask, and lip balm. In-seat screens with headphones and recliner seats with built-in massage functions, incredible leg space, and a note to request a blanket or extra pillows if needed.
The bus's 1-1 configuration is also a huge blessing. When watching concerts, I've always opted for aisle seats since I just don't have it in me to wriggle and squeeze past other people just to get to the toilet. Story says I could end up with kidney stones just for being antisocial, but I honestly think that's an exaggeration. It's not like I watch concerts every day, duh.
A part of me is dying to explore the rest of the amenities while I still have the bus all to myself. But there's the other part of me that's feeling really, really sleepy. And when I experience for myself just how comfy the recliner seat is, and ooooh. One push of a button has its massage function working pure magic on my back muscles, and...zzzz.
The bus is already on the move when I wake up. The sun has also started to set when I glance outside my window. I'm guessing I've been out for two hours at most?
I switch off the massage function with a yawn. Thank you, technology elves. I do a little stretch as I turn...and my heart drops to my stomach when my gaze meets a pair of painfully familiar cowboy boots.
You have got to be kidding me.
I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes that I'm hallucinating for the first time in my life. But when I open my eyes again, those shoes are still there. And they're still attached to the same pair of denim-clad legs.
Ugh .
Mr. Let's-Not-Forget-He's-Shameless-Too is seated right next to me, and I have a feeling that's no coincidence at all. He's obviously developed a taste for yanking my chain for whatever reason, but...I shall not let myself be provoked.
Because I'm a sensible adult.
Plus the fact that I owe him $150, literally.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I give my self-control a quick check one last time—
Yup, all good, still working.
—before finally lifting my gaze, and oh... no .
Why does he have to be the most beautiful man I've ever seen?
Why can't it be someone else?
Or just anyone really...except him?
I know I should stop staring, but seeing his annoyingly long lashes fanned against his bronzed skin presents a temptation I'm unable to resist. I just can't get over the sheer handsomeness of his features. How can someone with an attitude that leaves a lot to be desired...look so unbelievably desirable at the same time?
Every inch of him seems to have been crafted to tempt women to sin. The strong jaw. The high-boned cheeks. The very broadness of his shoulders and the mesmerizing expanse of his chest. Even his dark hair can make Claude die with envy: what this man's sable-black locks did naturally, my ex actually has to style his hair for hours, and all for the sake of his tortured-poet-persona.
This man is lethally better than Claude in every way, and... ugh, ugh, ugh .
I can't believe I did it again.
I've actually wasted precious time mooning over his looks—
"Enjoying the view, darling?"
—even if every word this horribly annoying man says makes me want to kick him in the mouth.
Manners maketh the man, sir , I'm almost tempted to growl at him. How can he not know that?A whirring sound shatters the silence then, and his recliner seat inches back into its 110-degree-angle at the push of a button. Lazy amber-colored eyes lock with mine as he finally turns to face me, and his lips slowly unleash the cockiest smirk I've ever seen.
Grrrr .
I would've given him the cold shoulder if I could, but since I do remember owing him money—
"Thank you for earlier," I manage to say instead as I open my purse. "I would've paid you back if you hadn't—"
"How about we agree to call a truce," he murmurs, "and I'll consider your debt fully paid."
I'm already putting my money back to where it still belongs even when he has yet to finish speaking. Beggars can't be choosers, 'Nuff said.
"So...why Hartland?"
I shrug, turning to stare out the window at the passing landscape. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the plains we're crossing. Each mile that passes is another mile between me and my old life. Between me and Claude's betrayal.
"It's a nice little town," he continues, "but rather remote."
"I like remote." I like anywhere Claude isn't.
"Even if it means not being able to access the Internet unless you're in Laramie?"
That's precisely why I'm choosing it , I can't help thinking, but I also choose to keep the words to myself. Once burned, twice shy, yada, yada, yada.
His lips twitch at my continued silence. "Am I really that hard to trust?"
I turn to face him then, really look at him. Despite his arrogance, there's something magnetic about him that draws me in. Something dangerous.
"You don't need to take it personally. I'm like this with everyone."
"Since when?"
There is no way I'm going to answer that.
"Two weeks ago?" he persists, his voice softening in a way that makes my defenses waver. "A month? A year? I'm guessing this isn't how you've always been."
His expression turns serious. "Did someone hurt you? Is that why you're keeping everyone at arm's length?"
Because he's already figured it out, blast it.
"Stop talking like you know me—"
"I know I don't," he says evenly. "But at the same time, it doesn't exactly take rocket science to guess what's turned you into a prickly little thing."
Why can't this man be more polite and less intuitive?
"It will just be the two of us for 26 hours—"
His words take me by surprise, and I find myself cutting him off as I ask, "How do you know that?"
"I think you were still sleeping when the driver made some announcements."
Huh .
That sounds perfectly reasonable, so why am I once again thinking that all of this feels like one giant setup?
"We don't have to be friends if you don't want to," Mr. More-Intuitive-Than-Polite cajoles. "We don't even have to exchange names. The only thing I ask is that we can at least be civil—"
Growl .
His words come into an abrupt halt at the sound, and a sharp frown creases his forehead. "When was the last time you ate?"
I can't remember. With everything that happened, food has been the last thing on my mind.
He's already walking to the back of the bus while speaking, and my stomach growls anew as he stands next to the vendo. "What do you want? You can check the menu on the seat monitor."
Oh, thank goodness, oh my, yum...
My mouth starts to water as I consider the array of dishes that the onboard selection has to offer.
"Can I, um, have the lobster mac & cheese?"
"What else?"
"Just that."
"What do you want to drink?"
"Just w-water, thank you."
He comes back a few moments later, and the scent of my microwaved lobster mac & cheese is absolutely divine. He goes back to his seat and pulls out the seat tray. He's paired a can of apple-flavored soda with a juicy-looking Philly cheesesteak for himself, and for the first several minutes, the two of us eat in relative silence.
The warmth of the food spreads through me, and I realize just how hungry I've been. How empty. Not just physically but emotionally too.
Huh .
I suddenly realize I can't remember Claude and I ever enjoying a meal like this. And the more I think about it, the more I realize how I can't actually recall Claude having nothing to say...ever since we started dating. He was just so self-centered, but he was also painfully right when he said I was dumb. I just can't believe it's taken me this long to see his true colors, and—
Ugh .
I can't help but bristle when I belatedly notice the way my co-passenger is studying me. "What is it?" I ask defensively.
"I was wondering if I should just say it."
"Say what?"
He slowly shakes his head. "Never mind."
Grrr.
"If you have something to say," I say stiffly, "then please, by all means—"
Sheep!
All I can do is jerk as he suddenly reaches across the aisle to oh-so-gently wipe something off the corner of my lip. His thumb lingers there, just a fraction too long, and I feel that same electric current from before racing through my veins.
"There." He leans back against his seat. "All done."
I quickly look away as my cheeks start to burn. "Next time, just tell me—"
"Are you sure about that?"
The question has me frowning. "Yes, of course—"
"Because there's something that I can't stop thinking of, but I guess I should just ask you outright—"
The wickedness in his tone is a dead giveaway, and my stomach starts to cramp. Is he going to ask something inappropriate? Something personal?
"What's your—"
Is he going to ask for my number? Or is he just asking permission to—
"—favorite ice cream flavor?"
The question is so unexpected that I actually laugh. A real laugh—the first one I've had in weeks. It feels foreign, almost painful, like exercising a muscle that's been dormant for too long.
And when I glance back at him, the look in his eyes has changed. There's something darker there, more intense, and I feel a shiver of warning race down my spine.
"You should do that more often," he says, his voice dropping to a husky timbre that makes something inside me clench. "Laugh, I mean."
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how small this luxurious bus feels. Twenty-six hours. Just the two of us.
And I don't even know his name.