Page 84 of Only One Tour Bus

The woman who’s looking up at the statues on the facade of the church, beginning to hold a “best calves of the statues” competition, giving me updates on every competitor as her eyes travel across the building. Apparently, the top contender so far is St. Bartholomew, since he’s so dedicated to this competition she’s running that he is showing actual calf muscle.

I don’t point out that he was flayed because he converted the king of Armenia to Christianity and not because he wanted to impress Asha many years in the future, because now I’m 92 percent sure that she knows that information and is doing a bit for her own, and possibly my, entertainment.

Maybe this group trip has been better than other trips I’ve taken. The group isn’t particularly smart or easy and Europe is no more beautiful than it has been in the past.

It’s because of Asha. She’s the only thing that’s different.

Damn it, I love Asha Kapoor.

That’s inconvenient. It’s poor timing, with the impending firing. And even if one of us wasn’t going to be fired, how would we live together? Am I going to find glitter in my pockets whenever I put a jacket on? Is my room going to be lit with a unicorn-shaped table lamp?

And what, she’s just going to make me smile all the time? Make me laugh and carry on when I’m having a bad day? Will I start being charmed by these tour groups?

Horrifying prospects, the lot of them.

But I don’t think telling myself not to love her is doing much either.

Asha is looking at me in question, clearly having no idea what I’m thinking. Would she even welcome my love? Maybe she wants someone she can chase butterflies with. Not catch them, of course; just frolic around a field with them. Purposeless, is what that is.

“I’m not chasing butterflies with you. I draw the line.”

She rears back, and I realize what that sounds like if someone isn’t privy to the thoughts in my head.

“What?” she asks, taking a full step away from me and almost crashing into one of the many tourists behind her. I grab her hand and pull her slightly forward until the tourists moves, then let her go again.

“Nothing,” I mumble. “What were you saying?”

“I was going to ask if you and Bartholomew had the same ab regimen, but now I think you need some food in you. You might be getting hit by the end-of-tour fatigue.”

“Yeah. That’s it.” It’s better than the truth, even if it is still embarrassing in its own right. This is my job, I should have more stamina than this. But nothing has prepared me for being in love with Asha Kapoor.

“It’s a good thing that pasta in Italy is magic.”

“Is gelato in Italy also magic?” I’m on to her now. Must be a side effect of all this love nonsense.

“How did you know?” She threads her fingers through mine and leads me away from the square and away from the tourists, so we won’t run into anyone when we eat.

“I had a hunch.”

We have a quiet lunch in a restaurant that has so much atmosphere with candles, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and mouthwatering smells, that I’m surprised an Italian nonna doesn’t come out and scold me for not eating enough. The food is delicious, of course. Italy always has the best food on the trip.

We take a leisurely walk around the town, where Asha stops at some truly tacky souvenir shops. And because I love her now, I have to buy this junk for her, because it makes her happy. She tries to protest, but she stops complaining when I throw in a pen with a little cloth Italian flag on top of it that waves when she writes with it.

We get to the bus before any of the group gets there, and Asha laughs and waves her pen-flag around as she checks everyone in as they trickle back.

At least if she loses her senses and makes a life with me, I know getting her gifts will never be expensive. She’s just as enthralled with a three-euro pen as most women would be for diamonds. I wonder if she reacts this way for all gifts across the board, or if I get her diamonds she’ll actually go into cardiac arrest.

The rest of the drive requires more stops than usual (the group quite enjoyed their first taste of Italian wine in Milan, and I’m sure they’re passing bottles they bought around in the back like high schoolers), but we finally make it to the Venetian hotel.

The hotel in Venice is one of the nicest on the trip, for history lovers at least. The other hotels are modern chains chosen for price and convenience and the occasional central location, but this hotel is in a historic building from the fourteenth century, decorated with period appropriate furnishings, and a spectacular courtyard.

Now I don’t have to imagine how the people who made Venetian and Italian history lived, because I’ll be living in it for the next few days.

And I guess the hotel is romantic, too. If people are into that sort of thing.

We get everyone checked into their rooms, and then we’re left with two keys, standing in the lobby as everyone else waits for the elevator.

“I guess we have two rooms this time,” Asha says lightly, holding up her key. “You’re probably happy to get your space back. And your arm.”