Page 4 of Only One Tour Bus

“…No.”

“You say potato, I say best potato ever.” She shrugs, not concerned with my argument.

“But—”

“I’ll have a hot chocolate, please, with whipped cream,” Asha says to the cashier.

I’m still trying to figure out her logic while I order a black coffee.

“How well do you think this is gonna go when we have two bloody groups that have nothing in common?”

“They’re humans.” She extends one finger. “They were all drawn to a trip around Europe.” Another finger goes up. “And since this company mostly advertises in America, they’re probably Americans.” A third finger. “That’s a great start. It’s more than I had in common with my last Tinder date, actually.”

Not touching that one. But as for the rest— “Half of them are older, or married with young children, while the other half are wild youths who only want to experience things that happen between ten p.m. and four a.m.”

“That is a gross oversimplification of my precious eighteen-to-thirty tour babies. They also want to see all the sights so they have excellent dating app photos. When was the last time you even did one of those tours?”

I recoil. “Not nearly long enough ago.”

“You’ll see. They have their own charms.”

“Okay, then. Name one.”

“They have stamina, especially on that long, hot Rome tour. Which comes at the end of the trip.”

“Not if they’re hungover.”

“Personally, I am always impressed at the depths of what hungover tourists can do. But look at me going on. You’ll see.” She pats me on the shoulder and goes to the counter to get her hot sugar drink.

She doesn’t even order a proper adult beverage.

Despite her personal faults, I can’t deny that she looks good when she’s being irrational. Even wearing a novelty backpack that has a scene looking into the facade of an English pub on it. Which seems unnecessary when a serviceable, sturdy, black or blue backpack would do just as well. And not be ridiculous.

Her wild, wavy hair tumbles down past her shoulders, bouncing every time she laughs, something she does often. She has a glow about her even when she isn’t laughing, because she always at least has a smile on her face, and the slightest red flush on her tawny cheeks, all suggesting warmth and sunny days even in the middle of a Scottish winter. That smile, which reaches her warm brown eyes, hasn’t dimmed even though the man’s just handing her a cup that she paid for, not proposing marriage.

Jaysus, how happy does she get when something actually exciting happens?

I shudder to think of the shattered eardrums of innocent onlookers, along with how blinded they’d get from that smile. If she doesn’t faint from all the energy expelled, first.

The woman is a danger to herself and others. And I’m the one who’s going to be closest to her for the next month.

Asha hands me a drink when she walks back. “They had yours ready when I picked up mine. I was going to fill it with sugar and milk”—my eyes widen in disgust—“but then I remembered how morally opposed you are to joy and didn’t want to overstep.” She extends the cup.

“And how is your cavity in a cup?”

She smiles in satisfaction after taking a sip. “Grand.”

Hey, I think she’s mocking my fine Irish accent. But before I can tell her about the noble history behind said accent, she’s off, walking out the door and to the offices. I follow her, not having many options since the group should be getting there soon.

The street outside the office is quiet. For now. Soon, the sidewalk is gonna be swarming with people and all of their luggage to boot, running around like headless chickens when all they need to do is stay calm and we will get them and their shite onto the bus. I savor the quiet, cool morning while I can.

Or I would have, if Asha wasn’t laughing uproariously at something our office assistant was saying. I know that assistant, and I sincerely doubt that whatever she’s said is worth the volume of praise she’s getting for it.

A laugh from Asha can’t even be worth that much, if she gives them out so freely. Whatever. It’s none of my business.

I finish my coffee and throw away the cup. Getting my iPad out of my practical, adult backpack, I start reviewing the last-minute details.

A half hour later, the first of the group arrive, an Indian woman and a Latina woman. They are going to be my favorite. The people who believe that getting places early is on time. Now if only they retain their punctuality and don’t get corrupted by the habitually late, I’ll be content.