Page 62 of Only One Tour Bus

I yawn then; I can’t help it.

“Well, that’s not going to help me any.” Then she yawns again.

“How bad would it be if we left them to their own devices? An early night sounds grand.”

“Bad. Especially since we’re supposed to be on our best behavior this tour. Apparently.”

“We’ll drop them off at the restaurant and give the restaurant the meal vouchers. And the bus will come back to pick them up. They’ll be fine.”

“But this is the best part of the job, interacting with the group in a social setting. Chatting and giving them advice and anecdotes. And hearing from them.”

“You described my nightmare. Telling history and seeing historic sites are the best parts of this job. Everything else are things to be endured.”

“You’re no closer to loving our babies.” She sniffs, and I can’t tell if she’s doing a bit or still congested.

My face scrunches up in disgust. “You can say they’re your babies as much as you want, but it won’t make it any less weird.”

“Buzzkill,” Asha says, but she leans her head against my shoulder, so she must not be that bothered.

“Is my shoulder a train station then, where the public can loiter?” I ask more to keep up appearances then any discomfort of her being there. I kind of like her being there, actually.

“I’m not the public, I’m a coworker.”

My eyebrows reach up into my hairline. “Does that make it any better?”

“Fair, it doesn’t. Let me rephrase. I’m not the public, I’m a friend.”

She doesn’t look up when she defines our relationship. I don’t know that it’s an accurate representation of what’s happening here, but I don’t want to refuse, either. I don’t want to hurt her wee feelings, if she thinks we’re close.

I grunt instead, and she takes it as agreement, because she keeps her head where it is, getting even more comfortable, if that’s possible. I keep very still, trying to minimize the bumps in the road and surprisingly sudden turns that this big coach is making.

As we get back into the city, I gently wake her up so the group doesn’t see her in this state. Not that they’re in a place to notice; all of them are just as tired and the drive back is uncharacteristically, but blessedly, silent.

Laura drives us straight to the restaurant, and Asha rebounds with impressive fervor. That mini-nap had the same effect as about five cups of espresso would on a normal person. She runs around the restaurant, getting everyone settled and helping with seating, food, and drink.

The restaurant might not be the most authentic place in the world, but it sure does try to hit all the high notes of what tourists expect in a Parisian café. There are a lot of tiny black metal tables on the sidewalk under a red awning with flickering candles on them. Our group takes over, getting the full French café experience.

Waiters bring out croque monsieurs and croque madames with copious amounts of wine, minimal amounts of small talk, and some condescension. This is why I respect French waitstaff.

I sit in the corner, sandwiched between the glass of the café and the rambunctious group that is coming back to life with some food and drink in them. By dessert, they’re back to their normal selves, their day out in the world’s largest royal palace and its effects a distant memory.

Asha floats around making sure everyone has everything they need and chatting with them. Her grilled ham and cheese sandwich gets cold in front of me as I eat my own, irritated that she isn’t sitting down and eating. And more irritated that I care.

But she is healing from being sick and needs to take better care of herself. And if she won’t do it, then I’ll be forced to.

When the crepes are being brought out, I snag Asha and gently pull her down to the table. The exhaustion must be getting to her, because instead of landing in the empty chair next to me, she lands in my lap and against my chest with a thud that knocks the breath out of me.

Or maybe I pulled her more toward me because this is where I want her to be. No, that can’t be it, because we’re professionals.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time, but don’t move away from each other.

CHAPTER 27

ASHA

I blush and move to the seat next to him when the table closest to us starts cheering at the spectacle.

“You need to eat. You’re recovering,” Callum says.