Page 45 of Only One Tour Bus

His soft lips are pressed firmly against mine and his tongue confidently caresses my mouth. His hands find my hips and dig in, dragging me closer until I’m pressed fully against him from lips to knees.

My own hands abandon some of their usual restraint and hold him tight around his wide shoulders, in case he has any doubt left about how into him I am. No—how into this I am. I’m still unsure how I feel about Callum, despite lusting after him. Because I doubt he would be a good fit in my life.

I need someone with a little more optimism in their outlook.

But I’ll still take this now. This amazing kiss from a pessimist. Who cares about his outlook when he’s making me forget my own name? Soon I’ll forget that he’s even a pessimist, and that we’re competing for a livable wage, instead staying in the utopia of this kiss. Which is somehow making my pulse race and providing the same comfort as an overstuffed chair by a roaring fireplace at the same time.

Callum rubs my back up and down as he gentles the kiss, and then pulls away completely. I have a moment where I lose any dignity and my lips chase his. But then I remind them that they have self-respect and that gets them back to my side of this embrace.

Just barely.

“That was nice.” Callum’s voice is gruff now, so I don’t take too much offense at the word nice. Here I am having a semi-religious experience and he’s using words like nice that can be applied to the things as mundane as a unique cloud formation or a cute card with a pun.

But it’s fine (another word that should not be applied about or around a kiss), because his tone is still affected by the kiss even if his words are borderline offensive.

“Yes, it was.” And then some.

Callum nods, then looks around for someone in the multiple paintings, tapestries and sculptures we’re surrounded by to come to life and help him out in this scenario. He’s kind of cute all unsure. A nice change from grumpy.

“We should get back,” he says.

“Yeah.” I don’t know why we have to be back, since we’re technically off the clock—unless someone calls us with an emergency—until tomorrow morning, but I let him have the copout. Despite how cute he looks uncertain, it’s not in my nature to let anyone suffer. After a stop at the gift shop, I slide my hand around his elbow on the walk back, the efficient way this time. Through the designated front entrance.

I see him look at the gate we just exited, right in front of the train station. Conspicuously in front of the station. Where we should have noticed it earlier to walk up to the house. I was distracted by how nice Callum looked in a tight blue henley; I’m not entirely sure what his excuse was.

The train rocks back and forth on the tracks as it pulls us back into London. Callum still hasn’t said anything to me, aside from the absolute minimum needed to communicate with someone he’s traveling with.

I don’t know what this means, but I’m choosing to look at this as a good thing. One that means he was as affected by the kiss as I was.

But does he want to take it further? I want to. I want to see what this grump can do in bed. Is he going to crab at me while making me come, or will he leave the negativity entirely like he did when we kissed? When his mouth was otherwise occupied.

I pretend to watch the countryside give way to buildings as we get closer to London, but I’m really staring at Callum’s reflection in the window. He’s not ignoring me, per se. But he hasn’t initiated conversation about what happened, or anything else. Just enough interaction that it isn’t entirely awkward. Just some awkwardness. Awkward-lite.

The train pulls into London as the sun goes down, and we walk back to the hotel. Before I can ask if Callum wants to join me for dinner, he says goodbye.

All right. That’s an answer then. Does he just feel awkward, or does he regret the kiss? I certainly don’t. It would suck if he did, when it gave me so much pleasure.

It’s even more awkward when he walks into the same takeaway place that I’m in fifteen minutes later.

“For how big these cities are, we do run into each other a lot,” he says.

“This is close to the hotel. It offers takeaway so we don’t have to interact with people in a job that already involves a lot of interacting. I don’t know; this one probably makes sense.”

“I suppose.” He puts in his order then returns to me to wait. “Since we’re both here, do you want to eat it? Here. Together.”

“I don’t want to impose if you have plans.” He was in such a hurry to get away from me earlier.

“The TV will be gutted to miss our quality time, but I’m sure she’ll recover.”

“Wait, did you make an intentional joke?”

“As opposed to all the times you think I’m a joke unintentionally?”

Eeek. Hoisted by my own petard. Or my own words, which are mightier than the petard anyway, if Shakespeare can be trusted. And high school teachers across the country want me to trust him.

“Making people laugh is a joy, Callum.”

“Even if they’re laughing at me instead of with me?”