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He’s definitely never spilled a forty-ounce Super Big Gulp down his cleavage.
“Why are you so interested in my clothes?” he asks.
For the record, I’m not—I mean, not really. It’s annoying that he’s seemingly so perfectly turned out, but if I have to endure a week of this, I’m doing it in an elastic waistband.
“Because we’re here against our will,” I say, “and you and I are about to spend the entire day driving to Los Angeles. I’m wearing what I want.”
“I’m sure Melissa won’t have anything to say about that,” he says dryly.
I glance down at my leggings and faded Dolly Parton T-shirt. Melly doesn’t like what I wear even when I’m dressed up, though I do use the term dressed up loosely. Fashion is not my forte. But if I have to tolerate her disapproving face anyway, I might as well be comfortable.
We roll our suitcases around the side of a building that houses one of the Comb+Honey warehouses, and James comes to an abrupt stop. My face collides with his shoulder blade.
I’m too busy being annoyed that his back feels wonderfully solid and defined under that dress shirt to immediately realize what caused him to pull up short.
“So I guess they’re not going for subtle,” he says.
I follow his attention to the giant bus parked at the loading dock.
Wow. “Am I the only one who thought the publisher had booked a van? I mean, a fancy van, but still.”
James heaves a sigh of resignation at my side. “No.”
“I definitely didn’t think we’d be traveling inside Melly’s and Rusty’s heads.”
But why am I surprised? Melly loves flash and she loves her brand—the Comb+Honey logo is literally stamped or embroidered on everything from golf shirts to key chains to the staplers in the office. (If she didn’t think tattoos were the worst kind of tacky, I’m sure she would have gotten a Comb+Honey tramp stamp years ago.) So obviously I was expecting a logo on the door. At most, I was thinking the book title would be tastefully scripted along the side. I did not expect a mammoth tour bus wrapped in a giant photo of Melissa and Rusty.
Their too-white smiles are stretched in vinyl across forty-five feet of windows and steel. Don’t get me wrong, the Tripps are a good-looking couple, but nobody looks their best at that scale, in high definition.
I leave my bag at the curb and take a few steps to the left, and then a few to the right. “The eyes follow you.”
James doesn’t even crack a smile. Apparently engineers don’t enjoy humor as much as assistants do.
A brown head of hair pokes out of the bus door, followed by the rest of a man with broad shoulders and a set of biceps that test the durability of his T-shirt. I’ve never really been into muscles before, but … I mean, I’ll admit these are pretty nice.
“Hey there!” Biceps shouts, easily skipping down the three steps from the bus to the ground, landing with an effortless bounce. “You must be the assistants.”
Beside me James goes completely still, in what I’m sure is an attempt to not have a toddler-level tantrum in the parking lot. Of course, I am delighted. Roll-dragging my suitcase toward the bus, I smile, make a fist, and shake out my fingers before offering my hand. “Yes. Yes, we are. I’m Carey.”
I catch him logging my movements, but he gamely takes my hand to shake. I’ve never enjoyed a handshake before, but in this case, I’ll happily make an exception.
“Joe Perez. I’ll be the handler on the bus. Our driver, Gary, is in there getting settled.” He jerks his thumb and I wave to a portly older guy already seated behind the steering wheel.
Joe looks over my shoulder to where James has begrudgingly joined us, and smiles, introducing himself again.
“James McCann,” Jimbo replies. “Director of engineering.”
I look at him, amused, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
The two shake hands and do the requisite guy nod, and then Joe is showing us the enormous luggage compartment under the bus. “I know this isn’t a very extensive tour,” he says, unlocking the metal hatch, “but I’ll be riding with you guys, making sure everything goes as planned.”
It’s possible Joe is the best-looking man I’ve ever seen up close. And he’s coming with us? Like, the entire time? Well, well. I do a mental pat-down in search of my lip gloss. Maybe this is a chance to take some of Therapist Debbie’s advice and assert myself, step outside of eighteen-hour workdays and no social life. To put my phone on silent and do what I want for a change. Mixing work and pleasure is likely to be the only way it’s going to happen for me, and I’d risk the fallout for those biceps.
Joe’s hair is dark, cut short on the sides but curly on top. He has a dimple in his cheek when he smiles, and his skin is sun-kissed and golden brown. When he reaches to place my suitcase into the open compartment, his shirt pulls taut across his back, muscles straining. My eyes follow the movement in a way I’m sure resembles our old dog Dusty watching hungrily outside the chicken coop.
