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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.