Page 48 of Only One Tour Bus

Which means I shouldn’t be in this room, so one of the tour leaders stay healthy and ready to take on all the job duties. But I can’t leave.

“Do you want me to get everyone sick?” she asks.

“Yes.” My response is immediate, and not what Asha expected, if her rolling eyes are any indication. “That would solve a lot of my problems. And make this tour go a lot smoother.”

“Some of them are going to be down for the count like me, so it’ll be a smaller group anyway.” Always with the bright side, this one. “This is what you want. I won’t be around to interrupt when you start this tour talking about how they found bones from 8000 BCE in the Fifteenth Arrondissement, or about the Parisii and how they’re the Gallic tribe that settled on the banks of the Seine in 250 BCE. It’ll be heaven. For you.”

Because it won’t be for the group, is the unspoken part of that sentence.

“Do you need anything?” I get up, needing to get my things in my room so I can meet everyone who is up for it in the lobby.

“No. I have paracetamol, vitamin C, zinc, and water. And I’m treating myself by ordering soup from room service like a rich person. I’m good.”

I look to the bedside table where all of the medications and vitamins in question are sitting. “If you’re sure…”

“Thank you for staying with me. It was very nice of you.”

I grunt, not comfortable with the praise. “I’m doing it so you can get better and pull your own weight.”

“Sure.” She nods at me in a way that says she’s not agreeing with me but wants to placate me.

“I’ll check on you after the tour.” I mean it to be helpful, but wince when it comes out vaguely threatening. “Well, maybe I’ll check on you tomorrow morning. You should be sleeping when I get back.”

“See you then. Try not to glare our tour babies into the Seine.”

“Only if they promise not to deserve it.”

I close the door to the sound of Asha laughing at me. Good, at least she’s feeling well enough to laugh.

Even if it is at me.

CHAPTER 21

ASHA

The next morning is not an improvement in my general state of affairs. And it’s not helped any by my sexy coworker bursting into my room looking fresh in jeans that hug his butt and a worn, tight green shirt while I’m in pajamas that have stains of indeterminate origins. I would like to think they’re from the last twenty-four hours, but I don’t do laundry on the road, so who can say.

But I must be feeling better, because yesterday I wasn’t even thinking about Callum’s butt or his chest when he was in my room, and now I can do both while he goes on and on about how many pictures people wanted to take of the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palais, the Eiffel Tower, and the Place de la Concorde. All while ignoring him when he tried to teach them the histories of each place. Each complaint, each photo, a unique criminal charge he’s accusing me of. As he glares at me to make sure I eat the scrambled eggs and croissant he brought me.

Not even from the hotel’s mediocre continental breakfast. This is from a bakery out in the streets of Paris.

And then he’s ranting about the advance of technology in cameras, and how they used to be worse so there were less pictures on the night tour, but now that they’re better, people are stopping all the time and it takes him twice as long to finish it. So many words for the usually grunty man. Not that there’s a lack of grunts in his tirade.

Before I can commiserate with him on the evils of phone companies daring to improve their products, he turns to me, and says, “How are you feeling?”

His tone changes. It softens as he asks the question. That’s surprising, but nice.

“I’m doing okay.” It was hard last night missing out on one of my favorite tours—fine, they’re all my favorite!—but I needed the rest. “At some point in the night I had chills and aches, and the thermometer told me I should be red-level worried, but the fever is back down to yellow-level worried now.”

“Try it again.”

“Do you…not believe me? Why would I lie?”

“I just want to see. Have you been drinking water?”

“Yes, Mom. I went through three entire glasses at some point in the last fourteen hours.” I answer around the thermometer in my mouth, sitting back on my bed.

“Close your mouth and let the wee thing do its job.”