Page 43 of Only One Tour Bus

“I didn’t see any signs either.”

Now she’s laughing at me, so whatever my reaction is, she’s enjoying it. God knows why. It doesn’t bother me as much when it’s Asha laughing at me. Maybe because the sound of her laugh is so nice I don’t much mind being the reason as much as I normally would. But I glare at the family in case they get any bright ideas.

They do not have the right to laugh at me.

Armed with the bloody phone robot telling us where to go, we trudge up a small hill, through a street with rows of village cottages, the red brick contrasting with whitewashed walls so bright in the mild English sun that it’s blinding.

We finally reach a back entrance, and I turn to the unwanted parasites, not letting them see my relief. “Here we are. Ticket office is that way.” I assume. I don’t know, but they’ll figure it out. There are people who work here and are getting paid to talk to our tourists today. And none of those people is me.

Asha watches them walk off, still laughing beside me. “You hate this part so much.”

“This part? No. This part is my favorite.” I speak without thinking, meaning that I love the part where the group leaves and I get to explore whatever city I’m in. Tied with lecturing on the walking tours, at least until the time for questions. Those can get very ignorant, despite the very false adage that there are no bad questions.

One American asked if it was necessary for me to keep going on about colonization and the destruction it has wrought.

What do you mean? It’s one of the foundations of the United Kingdom as it is today and as well as why other countries are the way they are. Yes, we’re going to talk about it. And no, we’re not going to sugarcoat it either, because that’s just lying with more letters.

Which is why the Q&A period of the tours are not my favorite. Some tourists are thick as shite and half as handy.

But this part, exploring new places with people who aren’t terrible, or alone—this I like.

And Asha, she’s not terrible, despite what I thought at first. I don’t know why I ever thought her energy was annoying. Maybe because I met her when I was fresh in this job, coming off the disappointment of giving up my lecturer dream. Maybe I hated the whole world a little then.

Then again, I know her attitude on someone else would still rankle. Just thinking about it makes me want to frown. Which I might be doing a wee bit of, because Asha is looking at me in confusion again. A frown can’t be causing all that.

Oh, because I said that this was my favorite, and I’m spending time with her right now.

“I mean, getting a chance to see the historic sites in Europe.” In case she thinks I’m being inappropriate with a coworker. “The history is my favorite.”

“And watching the group leave? Is that your favorite, too?”

“Undoubtedly.”

That makes her laugh again, at my expense, apparently. Ah well, at least she’s laughing.

“Shall we?” I ask.

“Yes. I want to see all this Jacobean majesty. With its two-level library and the King James Drawing Room. Those paintings of Queen Elizabeth, and all the Adams and the Eves. The gift shop.” She looks expectantly at me, challenge in her eyes, at the last thing.

I roll my eyes more for her amusement than any real annoyance. I still don’t approve of the commercialization of history, but at least with this gift shop and the ones she loves in museums, the proceeds go back to maintaining and teaching that history.

I buy the tickets before Asha can pay for hers. “I invited you. So I should pay.” She looks ready to protest. “It’s not a date, I just want to see it with someone who has half a brain.”

“Okay. But I’ve got lunch.”

I nod, but it’s a lie. I’m not going to let her pay for lunch either, but that’s a conversation for another time.

Lunchtime, specifically.

I walk through the house with Asha, through long galleries used for aristocratic exercise when the weather turned, to truly stunning sittings rooms and ballrooms, decorated with so many paintings, sculptures, tapestries and furniture that it would make many museums jealous. Especially American ones. Everything else is covered in a dark carved wood that makes it feel a little cozier. And every conceivable surface is covered in treasures, all demanding my attention at the same time.

Attention I usually give artifacts completely, but today it’s split between the house and the person I’m seeing it with.

We almost run into our tourist family in the King James Drawing Room, but I see them before they see us, and turn Asha abruptly into an emerald damask wallpapered corner, hiding from potential work.

It sets Asha off into peals of laughter. So much that I think we’re going to be found out, my evasive movements for nothing. I try to cover her mouth to stifle the sound, but that makes her laugh harder, her hot breath puffing against my hand in distinct gusts as her body shakes. Shakes I feel all too well with my body pressed against hers, causing an answering response in mine.

This close to her, I get to experience her happiness from a different perspective. Her brown eyes are sparkling with joy, the corners of her eyes creased because her smile is so wide. The skin on her face is soft, so soft I have to wonder if she’s using something unethical to keep it so touchable. And her curves slide right into my body, puzzle pieces that fit despite her ridiculously small stature.