Page 73 of False Start

And acting disinterested riled him up. It was a potent combination, one I could have counteracted if it hadn’t been for the kiss. Or the bus tour.

A comedy tour should be funny. And hell, maybe it was. Despite the two-man at the front of the bus, trading zingers and drawing the rest of the tourists into hysterics, my mind focused on Trent’s fingers against my hip and the weight of his palm on my thigh.

After a leisurely tour through an array of Civil War monuments, the bus pulled to a stop at a dingy-looking warehouse. A cidery, based on the tour guide. The riders crowded the aisle, eager to stretch their legs. Trent’s palm grazed my ass as he pushed me up to standing.

“Hey, buddy,” I snapped. “Watch your hands.”

He shot me an impish grin that could have just as easily meant he did it on purpose as he grazed it by mistake and just liked how riled it got me. “Sorry. Tight quarters.”

“Thirty minutes, folks,” the tour guide announced. “Grab a drink, something to eat, and then get back on the bus.”

I’d slip onto the bus before him and take the bench for myself on the next leg of the journey. Until then, I’d replace the warm feeling left by his hands on my body with warm food and alcohol instead.

We walked into the brewery and I steered away from the mobbed bar to the kitchen, the word “Pizza” emblazoned over the window.

My stomach growled, and I busied myself with staring down the limited “late night” menu written in curly script on a chalkboard, doing a piss-poor job of ignoring Trent’s presence looming behind me.

Okay, maybe not looming. Not menacing. Not even annoying me. Just there. Present. Almost comforting.

“I think I want a slice of the chicken buffalo.” He leaned down, his breath hot on my neck.

I resisted the urge to lean back. “I think they just took a supreme out of the oven.”

His hand curled over my waist, pressing me forward as the couple in front of us stepped away from the counter.

“Two slices. One buffalo chicken, one supreme.” Trent gave the man behind the counter our order, sliding his credit card through the reader.

“I’m going to get a pint of cider. You want one?” I needed space way more than I needed booze.

He shook his head. “Nah. I’ll take a sip of yours, if you don’t mind.”

I nodded on my way to the bar.

“You two are getting cozy, aren’t you?” Hayden sat at the barstool, five small glasses on a board in front of her.

I shrugged. “We’re trapped in a car together. We’ve adjusted.”

“And that was you two ‘adjusting’ at the back of the bus?”

My cheeks heated, and I ducked my head, relieved when the bartender swooped by to take my order. He retreated to the taps far too soon.

Hayden took a sip of cider, puckering her lips before setting it down. “I’m not judging. He’s just…a lot.”

“A lot?” I glanced back at Trent, still waiting for our pizza. He gave me a cocky grin and a half wave.

“A lot of baggage.” She followed my gaze back to Trent, eyes roving up and down before pulling away. “I know we just met, but you seem too level-headed for a guy like him.”

“We’re not—” I stumbled, unable to finish the sentence. “We’re just not.”

“No judgements!” She held up her hands with a grin, the blonde-wig bobbling on her head. “But for a guy actively trying to implode his career, this is a weird move, right?”

“He’s not trying to blow up his career.” I balked, my chest growing tight. “That stuff you’ve read? Rumors.”

She tilted her eye, blue eyes glassy. “You think?”

I bobbled my head. “Okay, some of it is probably true, but he’s a good guy.”

I echoed Derek’s words from a few weeks ago, finally believing them to be true.

---