“Oh…” I feigned a grimace. “No,” I lied.
I had gotten one, but it had read Evelyn Faraday, Walpole, Mass. I hadn’t worn it first, because…duh, Evelyn was my mom’s name, and second, because if people picked up on the Faraday part, although it was a stretch to imagine people paid that close of attention, someone might make the connection—that I was the Luna half of Lunch with Leo and Luna.
Or that I had been until a little more than two weeks ago…
“I…” My voice trailed off.
As the last trickle of passengers were boarding, I happened to glance toward the front, and that’s when I saw…
Him.
I’d officially gone off the deep end because, surely, I was hallucinating now.
The hot guy from the airplane was making his way down the aisle, looking as out of place as I felt. This morning, his brown hair was damp, combed back, and his scruff a little thicker than it had been the day before, but he was not alone.
“Oh my,” Babs whispered near my ear. “Tasty morsels like that one don’t usually sign up for these tours…”
The tasty morsel was dressed more casually today—well-worn jeans that fit a little too well and a plain Henley, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms.
What was it about a good pair of forearms, anyway? And this guy’s were top of the line. Strong but not bulky, with just the right amount of light brown hair curling softly against his skin. I glimpsed four tiny red marks on the right one.
Yep. Definitely him.
I dropped my head to stare at my lap, curiosity bouncing around my head.
Just as Babs had pointed out, he did not fit the “bucket-list tour” demographic. He looked too…capable. Too sharp. Too put together.
And, since he looked just a little older than me, he was definitely too young.
Everyone else looked like retired teachers and empty nesters, but not this guy.
Babs leaned into me again. “He looks like trouble, doesn’t he?” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Um…” How was I supposed to answer that?
Still, I side-eyed the latest passengers to climb on. Babs wasn’t wrong.
The woman with him looked to be in her early sixties, definitely age-appropriate for our group. She wasn’t stiff, exactly, but carried herself with a certain…caution. Like she was trying to blend in while keeping something to herself. She paused halfway down the aisle, scanning the seats, and he leaned in to say something in a low voice. She nodded and touched his arm—gentle, familiar.
“I’m so glad you’re here. You don’t mind if I take the window, do you?” She tilted her head back and smiled up at her much younger companion adoringly.
Was he…?
Oh my God!
Was he…like, a gigolo or something?
The thought hit me out of nowhere, and I had to stifle a snort. It wasn’t entirely impossible. He had the looks for it, that was for sure. And the whole “bossy but secretly charming” vibe only added to my suspicion.
Still, the idea felt ridiculous—almost as ridiculous as the fact that the same man who’d made my flight to Denver so uncomfortable was right here.
On this bus.
I mean, what were the odds?
But before I could even begin exploring that thought, his storm-cloud eyes landed on me. Recognition dawned, and for a second, he looked almost as startled as I felt.
“Aisle Seat Guy…”
