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Tucker is universally acknowledged as the friendly, teddy bear type. I swear, in all our years of friendship I’ve never seen him react this way to anyone, no matter how nasty the person.
“Well, could you believe her? She drops some famous person’s name and expects the entire world to fall at her feet. Not gonna happen.”
“Good for you.” I jokingly punch him in the shoulder. “Show her who’s boss. And a word of advice, if I may?”
Tucker glares at my sarcasm.
“You should bed the lady; she’s a hottie.”
Tucker snorts. “Yeah, as ifthatis gonna happen after our sweet meet-cute. Can you believe she didn’t even introduce herself? Just name-dropped her boss. Rude.”
“Dude, I can’t believe how much she has you worked up with a two-minute conversation.” The elevator dings open to our floor. “You should explore that chemistry.” I exit, giving a military salute. “See you downstairs in a bit.”
We walk down the corridor to our respective doors.
“Don’t be late,” Tucker says, pausing on the threshold. “I’m keeping a fifteen-minute grace period, but then we leave.”
Mock-grave, I nod and unlock my door. Tucker shakes his head and disappears inside his room.
After a quick shower, I stop in front of the closet mirror and feel a little girly as I debate how to dress to better impress another feisty lady. Is Summer the loose, light sweater kind or a fitted T-shirt lover?
Since I’m her first beard, I decide to make the fantasy complete for her and opt for a subtle lumberjack look: faded jeans slightly loose on the hips, boots, tight-fitting black T, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
Irresistible and ready to rock.
Pity the sight that awaits me downstairs couldn’t be any less rock ’n’ roll if it tried. Outside the main hotel entrance, a bus is parked with its engine running while small groups of wedding guests pile in. Okay, I guess I’ve suddenly turned eighty and am going on a trip with my fellow assisted living inmates. I’m half tempted to flip the bus the finger and take the bike; but, to be fair, we’re going wine tasting, so maybe being chauffeured around—no matter how uncool the vehicle—has its merits.
A hand slaps me on the shoulder, followed by Tucker’s voice. “Come on, buddy, let’s hop in. We don’t want to be late.”
I follow him inside, craning my neck to check where Summer is and what she’s doing, but all I can see is a glint of blonde hair at the rear end of the bus. The lady is doing her best not to look up, and I can’t even tell how she’s dressed. She’s seated in an aisle seat, the window one left empty, a clear message that she wants to ride alone. Regretfully, I’ve no plausible excuse to disrupt that plan, or even pass by to say hello. When Tucker takes a window seat halfway down the bus, I don’t have an excuse not to sit next to him.
The bus fills up quickly, a mixed group of personalities. The academics are easy to pick out, and not just because I know some of them from past expeditions. They’re a distinctive bunch and mostly fit into the serious, bespectacled stereotype. Except for Giovanni, a young Italian archeologist who is the Yin to my Yang: dark hair, darker eyes, tanned skin—cool to the bone, interesting competition with the ladies. We had more than a few cases of overlapping interests in that department while Logan and I spent a month in Rome doing research for one of our trips.
“Giovanni,” I greet him, half rising from my seat to grasp his hand in a brotherly handshake.
“Archibald, my friend. Long time no see, too long. We have so much catching up to do.”
“Good thing we have a week of booze tasting ahead of us and nothing else to do.”
However brief, our conversation causes a line to form behind Giovanni, a single file of people extending outside the bus. The woman waiting at his heels stares at us passively-aggressively enough to prompt Giovanni to move on.
“All right, man. I’ll see you later.”
The moment Giovanni moves toward the back of the bus, the joy of seeing an old friend is replaced by a prickling sense of unease. What if he tries to grab the free spot next to Summer? I take more time than necessary to sit, following my friend’s progress. True to expectations, Giovanni pauses next to Summer, staring hopefully at the empty seat to her left, but she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge his presence, never raising her gaze from her phone. And Giovanni can only move forward.
With a sigh of relief, I settle back in my seat, proud of my ice queen. She sure has mastered the cold-shoulder treatment. I hope never to get on the wrong side of that attitude.
When almost every seat in the bus is occupied, the driver peeks back over his shoulder, asking no one in particular, “Are we good to go?”
Tucker stares at his watch, probably checking if the fifteen-minute grace period has expired, and yells, “Let’s go.”
The driver pushes a button to close the front doors, but before they lock, a scream comes from the yard, “Wait!”
The driver reopens the doors and Feisty Curls climbs in, panting as if she’s just run a long distance.
Next to me, Tucker stiffens, while pointedly staring out the window.
Miss Feisty Curls takes a quick scan of the seating arrangements, ignoring the few empty seats remaining in the front to head our way.
