Page 33 of The Love Bus

“Until he flips me the fin and floats belly-up out of protest.”

I smirked. “Maybe try the Mediterranean diet.”

He laughed. “I put a water plant in there once—Jumbo ate it overnight.”

“Emotional eater. Classic.”

“He lives with a judgmental cat who stares at him from the counter all day. Can you blame him?”

We were both laughing now, and I wasn’t sure what was funnier—Jumbo or this surprisingly silly version of Noah, who seemed to enjoy the absurdity just as much as I did.

It was...disarming. Unexpected. And really, really charming.

“Any other critters waiting at home for you? A dog, maybe?”

“I’m not home enough for a dog… What about you?”

“Nope, no pets.” I hesitated for a second because I had always liked the idea of having a dog or a cat around the house. We had a miniature wiener dog named Beans when I was a kid, and I remember him barking—a lot—but he was lovable. Unfortunately… “Leo was allergic.”

“Well, nothing’s stopping you now.” He turned and looked at me then, right in the eyes, expression deadly serious. “You should look into getting some fish.”

I snorted. “I don’t know, they sound pretty high maintenance. Maybe I’ll just share custody of someone else’s cat. That seems like the way to go.”

I was surprised by how quickly the time passed—almost as surprised by how much fun we were having, talking about silly, meaningless stuff. Even Mrs. Grady’s occasional disapproving glances couldn’t put a dent in my mood.

Just under three hours later, after winding through another canyon carved by the mighty Colorado River, the bus rolled to a stop in a parking lot near downtown Moab.

This time, though, Mrs. Grady seemed determined to stake her claim.

As people began lining up in the aisle, she stood, slipped in behind Babs, and practically tugged Noah out of his seat.

Under different circumstances—before Babs had explained Mrs. Grady’s health issues—I probably would’ve rolled my eyes.

But knowing what I knew now, I saw her differently.

I’d thought she was a little snobby, and maybe she was, but she also seemed a little fragile.

And coming on this trip with my own secrets, a personal life I wasn’t prepared to share with the world, I understood a desire to keep private things… private.

“I already know exactly where we’re going to eat,” Mrs. Grady declared, clutching Noah’s arm like a woman on a mission. “There’s this Mexican café, Holy Guacamole, it has more than two hundred five-star reviews.”

Maybe this wasn’t about control. Maybe it was just about time—time she wasn’t willing to waste.

Because when you’ve lost people, when the call comes out of nowhere, like it did with my dad, or when you’re sitting in the quiet of your childhood home while your gran takes her last breath two hours away, all alone, it changes you.

It teaches you that time marches on. Whether we want it to or not.

Noah shot me a glance over his shoulder, brows raised, his smile soft with indulgence. There was a question in it, though.

You good?

He didn’t have to check on me. But I knew why he did it.

I just nodded. No incoming panic attacks today!

But just as we stepped onto the pavement, before Mrs. Grady could whisk her son away, Babs perked up.

“Holy Guacamole, you say? Oh, I love Mexican. Fabulous choice, Chrissy!”

Chrissy?

Mrs. Grady’s expression barely flickered, but I caught the slightest downward twitch of her lips.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “I was thinking Noah and I could?—”

“Nothing like good chili.” That was Ed, looking like he belonged in a vacation commercial in his Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses perched on his head, arm slung around Eddie’s shoulders.

“I found that one on my app too. It does look pretty good.” Josie squinted down at her phone and then over to her sister. “I’m game if you are, Marla?”

“Absolutely.”

By the time we arrived at Holy Guacamole, we were a group of ten. Luckily, we beat the crowds, and the hostess was able to seat us without too much rearranging of furniture.

“Ooh, they have frozen margaritas,” sang Patty—I think? I was still struggling to remember all their names. “Denise, we should get margaritas.”

Right, it was Patty and Denise.

Definitely a couple.

“I don’t know,” Denise mused, flipping through the menu. “I had a lot of salt last night. That could mess up my blood pressure.”

“Eh, just take an extra half of Losartan. That’s what I do.” Ed waved a dismissive hand.

Eddie shot him a dry look. “Oh, is that what you do, Ed?” She leaned forward, turning her attention to Noah. “What do you think, Dr. Noah? You’re our resident doctor, after all.”

Noah, who had been calmly sipping his water, frowned. “Technically, that shouldn’t spike your blood pressure, but without knowing your history, I shouldn’t weigh in.”

“See?” Patty crowed. “A little indulgence never killed anybody.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. That wasn’t even close to what Noah had said.

Noah winced. “I’m saying a little salt on one margarita shouldn’t land you in an ER. But to be safe, maybe go easy on the chips and queso. And definitely don’t take half a pill just because Ed does. Medication doses are, you know, kind of specific.”

Ed shrugged. “Works for me.”

Babs, ever the instigator, lifted her menu. “So what I’m hearing is…extra guacamole and a round of margaritas? Excellent.”

Noah just dropped his face into his hands with a sigh.

Across the table, Helen touched her husband’s arm. “Just don’t forget to take your statin, sweetie, and remember, if you take it at night, it gets absorbed better.”

“Also, remember, hydrate or die-drate!” Marla said, barely looking up from the menu.

“I’m gonna be up all night peeing,” Josie added.

I focused very hard on my water glass, trying not to choke.

“Oh, look! They have table-side guacamole!” Babs interrupted, eyes gleaming as she scanned the menu. “And I swear, if guacamole is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Right, Chrissy?”

Noah’s mother exhaled and then laughed despite herself. Because with Babs, as I was quickly discovering, you didn’t really have a choice in these sorts of things.

“I just hope it isn’t too spicy,” Chrissy added.

“Well, you know what they say about spice…”

“What do they say, Babs?”

“Spice is like life—wait, no. Spice is the…spice? The spice of life. Wait, that’s not right either.” Babs frowned but then shook it off. “Anyway, a little spice is good for you. Makes things more interesting.”

I raised my eyebrows, and across the table, Noah caught my eye, amusement flickering in his expression. Before I could stop myself, I smiled back. It wasn’t intentional, but…

But Babs wasn’t finished. “Luna, dear, you must have an opinion on this.”

I shifted in my chair. “Margaritas sound good to me.”

Babs waved a hand. “No, dear. About the guac! You’re a professional cook. What’s the secret to making the perfect guacamole?”

Beside her, Mrs. Grady stiffened with a frown.

“You’re a cook, as in, you work in… a restaurant?” she asked.

How many times had I heard this attitude from my own mother? I smoothed my hands along the fabric of my dress and forced a smile. “I’m currently…between jobs.” I lifted my chin. “But yes. I cook in a restaurant.”

“Do you have a guacamole philosophy, Luna?” Completely ignoring the sudden shift in energy, Babs barreled right along. “Extra lime? Some sort of special ingredient? Tell us your secrets.”

I hesitated. I mean, I’d never considered it a philosophy per se.

“Well,” I started carefully. “You absolutely have to use ripe avocados. And then you don’t want to mash it up too much. A little texture gives it structure. Lime juice is a must, obviously, and so is salt—but not too soon, or it’ll get watery.”

“And cilantro,” Noah cut in smoothly.

“Sparingly,” I added, but then I stopped, my head jerking up. Wait. What? How did Noah Grady know I used cilantro in my guacamole recipe? Sure, it wasn’t super unusual, but not everybody used it.

He just grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “And jalapenos.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “But only if they’re fresh.”

“Naturally.” He nodded, his eyes gleaming. Had he…?

Leo and I had recorded an episode featuring my grandmother’s recipe for guacamole.

Our server arrived just then, and across from me, Noah leaned back in his chair and shot me a look. Like the two of us were sharing in an inside joke.

And then he smirked. He had!

Next to him, Mrs. Grady’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. “Remember, darling, that little taco place we went to in San Diego? They had the best fish tacos, and the guacamole was spectacular .”

Noah, still holding my gaze for a fraction of a second too long, finally looked at his mother. “Huh? Oh, yeah, those were good.”

The waiter returned then with our drinks (a half-salted margarita for Denise, full-salted margaritas for the rest, and an extra-large for Babs) and, once those were all distributed, he began preparing the tableside guacamole while Ed provided enthusiastic play-by-play commentary.

No cilantro or jalapenos, but the waiter did chop up some fresh bell peppers and garlic.

I should’ve been fully engaged in the conversation. But my eyes kept drifting—kept catching Noah’s.

And every time they did, I felt a warmth, more than friendship, unfurl in my stomach.