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A bus ride that will live in infamy.
Mercifully, the bus pulled up, its squeaky brakes not inspiring all that much confidence in the state of our public transportation system. But I didn’t have time to worry about trivial things like failing brakes. Hot Hands was still eyeing me, and I might have sneaked a glance or two his way as well.
But it wasn’t my fault. I practically grew up in my mom’s salon, and when someone had a head of hair as magnificent as his, it had to be appreciated. It was practically the law.
Jet-black, cropped close around the sides, long and curly on top. It looked silky-soft and begged to be touched. A stupid grin came across my face when I imagined running my fingers through those curls—you know, just to see what the texture was like.
“You sure you’re all right?” he asked as the crowd started filing toward the bus’s open door.
“Yeah, it’s just a scuffed heel.” My cheeks burned when it dawned on me that I’d spent the last thirty seconds daydreaming about touching a perfect stranger’s hair. It was past time to put this crush-worthy stranger in my proverbial rear-view mirror and trot out my professional side. “This is my ride. Have a nice day.”
That was professional-ish. It was how I ended every call I fielded at work when the receptionist didn’t show up. I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one who fudged on sick time at my stepmom’s hole-in-the-wall travel agency.
I twisted my ankle as I spun to walk away from him. Drat that loose ankle strap. I pretended I didn’t hear his snort of stifled laughter and slipped onto the bus with my head held high.
Most of the seats were already full by the time I reached my preferred spot near the middle of the bus—another safety tip mom had passed along to me after she and Dad had split up. I didn’t know if the middle was actually all that safe when most of the area was “standing room only” with grimy little hand-holds extending from the ceiling, but why tempt fate?
A single row of seats lined the side of the bus, facing inward, and I shrugged my purse onto one of them. The bus lurched to a start, throwing me off balance as passengers still milled about. It wouldn’t have been a problem if my obnoxious shoe hadn’t been acting up. There was no way I was going to ace my interview with it barely clinging to my foot.
I squatted down to fix my strap, setting my donut in the seat next to where I’d placed my purse. It had taken me eight months of slaving away for the Wicked Witch of the West to save up for that bag. No way was I going to risk it getting stained with chocolate. That donut had to have a seat of its own.
I inspected the tiny buckle on the side of my ankle.
“Oh, no!” A deep voice caught my attention.
I looked up and was met by a familiar pair of dark eyes. Only this time, they weren’t smiling at me. They weren’t flirting with me. They were wide with disbelief and just a hint of horror.
“What did you do?” he moaned.
“Me? What are you talking about?” Then it dawned on me. He was sitting in my donut’s seat! “Wait, where did you put my breakfast.”
He stood up and reached behind him, patting his rear end. “It’s here.” His voice was flat and his sparkling smile from before was MIA.
I looked at the seat behind him. “Where?”
He turned around and I saw it. The thin, crinkly paper the barista had used to hand my donut over the counter was now stuck to his backside, with my éclair smashed onto the seat of his pants.
“Oh.” That was the best word I could muster in the heat of the moment.
“Why would you put your donut in a seat like that?”
If I’d been standing, I’d have cocked my hip, tossed my hair, and given him a withering look that would have sent him running with his tail tucked between his legs. Since I was still squatted on the grubby floor of an ancient bus and fighting with my ankle strap, I settled for shooting him the withering look only.
Apparently, the look wasn’t nearly as intimidating without the accompanying body language. He didn’t even seem to notice.
“Why didn’t you look before you sat?”
“I did.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Maybe I was a tad at fault—okay, a little more than a tad. I hadn’t noticed that he’d been about to sit down.
“Well?” He looked at me with eyes expecting something from me that I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like.
“Well, what? I’m not going to eat it now.”
“Get it off.”
I stood. “Me?” The thought of being that close to his hind end made me all jittery inside.
