“Dang it. Fine,” I say to myself, pulling my phone out to check the app.
Then another ding comes with the phone in my grasp, signaling another match alert. That’s five in one day. I shove the phone in my pocket, overwhelmed by it all.
Anotherding. Cheese and rice, this is going to be exhausting.
“Sha-booyah! Sha-sha-sha-booyah, roll call!” the girls chant on the right side of the bus with a few reluctant boys on the left joining in. The bus driver, a Florida native, joins in to the best of his ability. Malcolm sits in the seat next to me, his head tilted back, eyes firmly shut as we bounce down the highway toward our hotel.
The rapid movement makes it near impossible for me to rest, but Malcolm has no issues snoozing away next to me. I stare at him, tracing the line of his perfectly shaped beard as it leads to his lips. Memories of mistletoe and subtle hints of brandy threaten to overtake me when we hit a pothole. I tear my eyes away from his lips, traveling my gaze downward, landing on his Adam’s apple.
And an Adam’s apple it is.
It bobs slightly.
My mouth dries for some odd reason. Since when has Malcolm had such an intriguing Adam’s apple?How many times am I going to say Adam’s apple?
An all-too-familiar ding snaps me out of my trance. I sigh and click my phone screen off.
“Another match, huh?” Malcolm’s low voice comes out in a purr. His eyes are still closed, but the corner of his mouth twitches up when I cross my arms.
“Yes,” I groan, leaning my head against the seat. “I still haven’t checked any of them.”
“What’s stopping you?”
What is stopping me? I want to date again, so why am I refusing to check out any of my matches? And why is Malcolm’s Adam’s apple so dang interesting?
“You’re staring.” He smirks at me.
“I am not.” I whip my head forward.
“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Stanley.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel bad?” I attempt bumping my shoulder against his, which he attempts to dodge, turning his chest toward me, and at the same time, we hit another pothole. The combination of events throws me into Malcolm’s huge body.Hard.My head smacks against his chest. He grips my shoulders to steady me, squeezing twice before sitting me up.
“Golly! Do you have body armor under there?” I growl, rubbing the side of my head.
“Nope. Just solid man.” He chuckles, giving his chest a one-two pound that sounds like hitting a wall.Solid man.“You good?” he asks as his eyes evaluate my face with concern.
I see stars for a moment. “I’m fine. Hard to believe there isn’t a sheet of rock under there with how bad this hurts.”
“Would you like to see for yourself?” He gives that smirk again. Is he…flirting?
“What? No! I was just saying it feels like I smacked into a wall. Like you’re just so hard, er…I mean, wide—no. You’re just…ugh…you’re just a lot.”
“Again, I say, solid man.” This time, his smirk is followed by a wink and wave as if to present himself as a prize to the audience. And I’m definitely staring at his chest now.
“We’re here!” Birdie screeches from the back of the bus, saving me from the awkward lingering of my eyes. I’m pretty sure they are going rogue, and my brain no longer has control over what they look at. Or…gawk at.
The entire right side of the bus—the girls’ side—lets out giddy screams, scrambling for their bags and barreling toward the door before we even come to a full stop. A screeching halt sends Chloe, Tess, and Birdie flying to the floor, with Claire tumbling into a seat. Charlie and Garret cackle a few rows behind us, whistling and clapping as the girls try to peel themselves off the floor. I have to bite my lip to resist cackling with them.
“She is beauty; she is grace!” Travis yells from the back of the bus. The boys hoot and holler at his quip, leading the girls to bicker at them.
Malcolm grabs my hands and presses them against my ears, his callused hands pressing firmly against the sides of my face and muffling the chaotic noise building as everyone starts to argue. Everything around me fades away, and for a solitarymoment, all my senses are focused on Malcolm’s hands. I can’t help but lean into it, my eyes fluttering at the sensation that travels down my neck from his touch.
But then Malcolm lets out a whistle loud enough to burst an eardrum, snapping me back to reality. The bus falls silent.
He grumbles as he stands and faces the kids behind us. “Alright,” he projects, using his military-coach voice, a rumble from deep inside his chest. “Get your crap, and get off the bus. You’re athletes, so try not to trip over your own feet while you’re at it.”
The kids leave the bus in a single-file line like a group of little troops following Commander Geer’s orders.
