Page 6 of The Bad Wedding Date

“You’re doing it again,” he said, breaking me from my reverie. “Staring.”

“I’m thinking…”

“About?”

“Your name.”

I thought I saw a flicker of something flash across his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “You got any theories on that?”

“Hmm,” I mused, rubbing my lips back and forth. “You’re definitely not a John, Dave, or Steven. But then I don’t see you as an Enrique or Bastille, either.”

“Bastille?” He raised a brow.

“It’s a name.”

“For a dog, maybe.”

I chuckled and shook my head, relaxing somewhat in this man’s company. Stranger danger was at the forefront of every woman’s mind when they were out and about on the streets by themselves, but something about this guy told me that he wasn’t the kind of trouble you should run from—at least not physically, anyway. I couldn’t help imagining what he’d look like without that navy suit jacket on. How his forearms might look with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbow. How the thicker parts of his blond hair would feel against my fingers if I were to just push the tips of them through it and—

“My bus is here,” he said, breaking me from my thoughts again before he slowly rose to his feet.

Blinking, I pushed some stray strands of hair away from my face, tucking them behind my ear as I watched him securing the button of his jacket in place. When his eyes met mine again, he smiled like we were familiar—as though we were old friends about to say a quick goodbye before we arranged to meet for lunch the next week. I glanced back at the road to see which bus he was taking and saw the number 15 glaring at me from the front of the vehicle.

I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

Rising to stand, I gestured to the doors that hissed and opened slowly.

“Strangers first,” I offered. “Don’t worry; I won’t hound you about your name or anything. I’ll sit at the back and leave you in peace.”

“Shame,” he said, gesturing to the bus. “Call me old fashioned. Ladies first.”

“It’s not often I get called a lady.” I faked a curtsy.

“I call it how I see it.”

With a small inhale, I gave him a thanks and began to board.

I was beaming at the driver, trying to communicate about the hot guy behind me with nothing more than my telepathic abilities—of which I had none, apparently—but he looked as though he’d worked a long shift and was already sick of everyone’s bullshit. Once I had my ticket, I made my way to the back and took a seat, worrying the ticket in my lap, unable to stop the small smile on my face.

Maybe this John Lewis dress and these charity shop shoes weren’t so bad after all.

Maybe my hair wasn’t as ghastly as I imagined my mother saying it was.

“Anyone sitting here?”

I looked up to see Chris-Bastille-John-Enrique standing there, holding onto the back of a seat as the bus creaked and groaned to life again.

“I don’t usually sit next to people I don’t know.” I smirked. “It makes it difficult to track them down if they leave something behind or offend me.”

His flat smile rose, making his dimples appear beneath the blond, peppery beard framing his jaw. With a chuck of his chin, he said, “Fraser.”

“Fraser?” I mused. “Huh.”

It suited him in every way. He was a Fraser—a name different enough to belong to only a few like him, yet simple enough to not make him seem like an arrogant prat.

“Nice to meet you, Fraser.”

“Nice to meet you…” He arched a brow.

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