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“No,” I say flatly, hoisting my backpack back onto my shoulder and slinging the strap of the camera I got for my eighteenth birthday around my neck with what I hope is effortless grace. “I’m here as a working professional to take photos. James is going to tell me about the best places on the route to wait.”

And with that, I walk past him, resisting the very strong urge to check my reflection in the bus window as I go.

Because nothing says unbothered like striding away armed with a fluorescent pink sleeping bag and a bucket hat.

I settle into a window seat on the bus and try to zone out of the noise around me. How much sugar have these kids had? It’s not even 8 a.m. and they all have too much energy.

“This seat free?” Tom asks and I gulp. Two hours on a bus next to Tom. I can do this. I am a strong soldier… ish.

“Um, I guess.” I look up into warm brown eyes. Before I can say anything else I’m interrupted by someone sitting down on the opposite side of the aisle. James.

Fuck my life.

“Claire,” James grins. “I hope that Fordy isn’t annoying you too much already, it’s a pretty long drive.”

“Not yet,” I grit out. “But he just arrived, give him a few minutes.”

I uncap my pen and look determinedly at the page in front of me. What photos should I take today that would best align with the marketing campaign?

“You should be nicer to him,” James interrupts me. “He’s terrible at talking to women. It’s one of his fatal flaws.”

“Oh, here we go,” Tom mutters.

“I’m serious. He hasn’t been on a date in months. Since at least the start of term. The highlight of his life is his neighbour’s grumpy cat.”

“Can we not do this?”

They continue bickering, but I don’t hear a word, because my nervous system has short-circuited. He hasn’t been on a date since the start of term. That would be when we went out.

Oh dear.

I clutch my pen more tightly.

Beside me, Tom rubs a hand over his face. “Ignore him. James thinks gossip is a valid extracurricular activity.”

“It absolutely is,” James replies cheerfully. “Anyway, I can’t believe I’m willingly spending my weekend on a school trip.”

“As if you were going to be doing anything more interesting,” Tom retorts. He stretches back and pulls off his cap. I find myself watching the way his hands move. It’s mesmerising. He has very nice hands. His fingers look graceful.

Thinking about hands… this is obviously not me being a relaxed ocean of calm.

You are relaxed, I repeat to myself. You are an ocean of calm and zen. So what if my pulse just did a jazz solo when I found out he was still single? Totally normal. Totally manageable.

James gives a non-committal shrug. “You love it more.”

I keep my eyes firmly on my notebook like I’m about to write the next great British novel.

I glance at his arms.

Do not look at his arms.

My gaze moves back to his hands.

Do not look at his hands again. That’s not any better.

“Only because I don’t think teenagers are out to destroy me on a cellular level,” Tom replies. “Unlike some people.”

“They are out to destroy me,” James mutters. “They sense weakness.”