Page 18 of The Love Bus

“I know,” he said right before taking his hand back.

“How?” I asked. “How could you possibly know?” Because I sure as hell didn’t.

“Because when you thought you heard ghosts, you may have run at first, but eventually, you went back and faced them.”

I just stared back at him, and then finally nodded. “True.”

Tay, who was standing at the front of the bus, clutching the pole in one hand, chirped up again. “Okay, everyone, quick rundown of today’s itinerary!”

Behind her, I noticed that Joey had turned on the wipers, brushing the rapidly falling snowflakes off the massive windshield.

“We’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover today, so it’s really important that we stay on schedule. Glenwood Springs is waiting for us, and I know you’re all looking forward to the spa appointments you’ve reserved for later this afternoon.”

“I love a good massage!” Babs piped up, rubbing the back of her neck. “Top of my list whenever I travel.”

A few passengers murmured their agreement.

“But we only get our massages if we stay on schedule .” She paused, letting the warning sink in before giving us all a picture-perfect WonderWorld smile.

Just then, the bus lurched slightly as the wheels seemed to lose traction.

Tay let out a startled squeal, falling into the seat behind Joey. I grabbed the armrest instinctively, as if that could somehow anchor us.

“Well,” our fearless leader said, still on mic, “I guess I’ll be sitting down now. But don’t worry, folks—Joey’s a pro. He’s got this!”

At this point, I think I would have preferred to get out and walk. Anything had to be safer than slip-sliding up the side of a mountain in a giant tube of metal.

From the corner of my eye, I could literally feel Noah’s calm ebbing across the aisle.

“Just a little turbulence,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

I turned to him. The blue flecks in his eyes seemed to be dancing.

“Is that supposed to help?”

He shrugged, his posture infuriatingly relaxed. “Old Joe knows exactly what he’s doing. I trust him with my life.”

I glanced over in disbelief, but seeing that little smirk dancing on his mouth, it clicked.

Noah was doing it on purpose.

He was teasing me—goading me—not because he thought it was funny, but because he was trying to distract me.

Helping me, actually. Being…nice.

And while some weird part of me instinctively bristled—because I needed to prove to myself that I didn’t need his help—I let myself lean into it, just the tiniest bit.

“We don’t have much choice, do we? And you know what else?” I lowered my voice conspiratorially.

“What?” he asked, matching my tone.

“I don’t really believe ‘old Joe’ has been driving buses through the Rockies for three years.”

“I’d be surprised if he’s had a driver’s license for three years.”

“Is he even twenty?” I went on. “With that baby face, he looks like he’s about?—”

“Twelve?”

“Right?”

“Maybe thirteen.” He nodded seriously, his eyebrows knit like he was giving our conversation actual consideration.

I laughed—actually laughed—and felt my grip on the armrest loosen. Noah didn’t smile, but there was a flicker in his eyes.

I dropped my gaze to his hands, which rested calmly in his lap. Sinewy, capable, steady.

He wasn’t telling me to calm down. He wasn’t trying to fix me.

He was just quietly being…helpful.

And this time, I didn’t mind.

In fact, that only made me want to know more about him. So I asked him one of my favorite ice-breakers.

“If you were a kitchen appliance, which one would you be?

Cool eyes slid in my direction. He didn’t miss a beat. “The fire extinguisher.”

“Why?”

“I’m good in emergencies.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and my mind immediately conjured an image of him from the night before—methodically going through my room, unruffled and in charge. He’d teased me at first, but there really was something reassuring about him.

“You work in the ER.”

“Yup.”

The thought of him in a hectic ER—focused, commanding, maybe even saving lives… Honestly? It suited him. I could easily imagine him working under pressure, ordering medical tests while tending to a patient who’d been injured in a car accident, was having a heart attack, or…

Had broken her hip?

“Which hospital?” I asked.

He grimaced. “Beacon Hill General.” He crossed his arms, and his hands, which had been so relaxed a few seconds before, were now digging into his biceps.

Not, I realized, a result of the snow-covered road outside.

Beacon Hill General wasn’t the hospital where my mom had had her surgery. But I’d heard of it, and I think it was one of the largest hospitals in New England.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly, turning my line of questioning back on me.

And, crazy thing, I wasn’t sure anymore…

“It’s complicated,” I said at last.

“Going somewhere?” Noah glanced down at his watch, the movement pulling my attention to his forearm.

A perfectly ordinary forearm, I told myself. Except…not.

I forced my gaze back up. “Am I going somewhere, you mean…now?”

He tilted his head toward the window. “Unless you’d rather not talk about it, we’ve got plenty of time for you to explain ‘complicated.’”

My mouth opened, then closed again, words fumbling behind my lips.

He wasn’t pressing, exactly, just patient in a way that kind of disarmed me.

I sighed, leaning back, My time with all these people was limited to twelve days, and for the first time since the YouTube channel took off, I was pretty much…

anonymous. No one here knew all the gritty details of my life story; no one here watched in real-time as Leo proposed in the middle of an episode all those months ago, or followed our attempts at planning a wedding, gossiping about “how cute we were together” and our compatibility as a couple (or lack thereof).

“I’m the cook,” I finally answered. Not an appliance at all.

It was who I was, but also what I did…

“Like, professionally,” I added.

I intentionally left out the celebrity part. And since I’d never been properly trained at a culinary institute—like Leo had—I wasn’t comfortable calling myself an actual chef.

Straightening my back, I waited to hear the inevitable judgment.

I could not tell you how many times I’d had to defend my career choice, to my own parents, especially my mom, but also to total strangers. And Noah Grady was a doctor; he could easily turn this into a whole thing if he wanted.

“Huh,” he said. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”

I blinked.

I laughed, surprised. “That’s like asking if I have a favorite child.”

“Do you?”

“Have kids? No, I’ve never— We didn’t—” I stopped and face palmed myself. “You mean recipes. But…no? I mean…most of them are a version of my gran’s old recipes. So… It’s hard to pick just one.”

I risked a glance at Noah.

He was watching me with the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he was amused. Or maybe just trying not to laugh at how completely unhinged I sounded.

I cleared my throat and looked away. “That…made more sense in my head.”

“Those must be some damn good recipes.” He wasn’t exactly smiling with his mouth, but the look in his eyes encouraged me.

“They are!” I felt myself brightening. “My gran cooked the way people should cook. Nothing fussy—just real, honest food. The kind that makes you need a second helping.” Talking about her took me back to the smell of butter and herbs, the warm sound of her voice, the meals that had taught me how to love food in the first place.

I glanced at Noah, expecting disinterest, maybe even polite boredom. But his head tilted slightly, those blue-gray eyes—like the horizon on a cloudy day—just watching. Waiting.

“Is your gran still around?” he asked softly, almost like he knew...

I swallowed around a thickness in my throat. “She passed eight years ago, right before Christmas.” She’d been alone. In her sleep. “I still think of her every day though.”

“She meant a lot to you.”

“She still does.” My heart squeezed, but it was okay. I inhaled, and the air in me lightened a little.

“So, then, you must have a few favorites…”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I felt myself grinning, and so I just…let myself ramble a little. Unchecked.

And for the first time in way too long, I felt like I could say what I felt. I didn’t need to think about ratings, or branding, or cutting into Leo’s time.... I could just talk food the way I wanted to.

And…it felt pretty damn good.

“She made the best New England clam chowder you’d ever find—none of that thick, gluey stuff they try to pass off in chain restaurants.

Hers was perfect. Silky broth, light but rich, loaded with tender clams and perfectly cooked potatoes.

She taught me to add a little salt pork instead of bacon, because she swore bacon overpowered the clams.”

I found myself talking about her quahogs, describing her secret breadcrumb blend.

I could see it—the baking sheet lined with shells, the scent of butter and garlic and a hint of lemon filling her tiny kitchen. My mouth watered at the memory.

“And her johnnycakes,” I sighed dramatically, placing a hand over my heart.

“Thin and crispy, never too thick or doughy. She made them on this ancient cast-iron griddle that probably weighed more than she did, and you had to eat them hot. If you were lucky, she’d make a batch of sweet cream butter to go with them.

God, that stuff should’ve been illegal.”

I paused, because I’d been going on and on and on, but I couldn’t help the way my heart felt lighter, happier, just thinking about it. It felt like it’d been forever since I last talked about my favorite kind of cooking, since I’d talked about her .

Not with Leo. Not with my mom. Not even with Ashley…

Noah hadn’t interrupted—not once. He just kept watching me, that tiny crease between his brows like he was puzzling something out.

I cleared my throat, giving a self-conscious shrug. “So, yeah. Any of that, really.” And then I couldn’t help but add, “That’s probably more about cooking than you wanted to hear.”

He just shook his head, almost smiling. Almost laughing. “Kind of. But that’s not the problem.”

“Problem?”

“Now I’m hungry,” he said.

The look in his eyes made my heart skip a beat.

“Right?” I held his stare. Was he actually smiling at me? Not quite. But close. And I couldn’t help it.

I smiled back.