Page 43 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

Jermaine tapped his watch. “Make that three hours now, and no, we won’t be sleeping on this trip, at least most of us won’t, but we still need our assigned bunks.”

Waving at the unloaded luggage, I said, “Doesn’t look like I held anything up.”

“No, but you’re essential.” He snapped at one of the guys loading the bags. “Make sure these get on board.”

I slipped my carry-on from the top of my suitcase. “I’m keeping this one with me.”

I stepped onto the bus, and the people on board, laughing, chatting, singing, eating, and making themselves at home infused it with life. Excitement thrummed through my veins.

Jermaine crowded me from behind. “Your bunk is upstairs.”

I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and climbed to the second level, which sounded like a library compared to the noise below. I immediately spotted Conor’s blond head bent over his phone in his hands, sitting on a top bunk.

He glanced up. “Thought you’d abandoned us.”

If only I could.

“My pet setter was late. Jermaine said I had the last open bunk up here.”

Conor pointed both thumbs down, and it took me a minute to realize he wasn’t just giving my statement a negative response—he was actually gesturing...to the bunk below his.

This had to be a joke. I had to sleep below Conor?

I adjusted my glasses to be sure. “That’s the only bunk left? Below yours?”

Rhys, the drummer, poked me in the back with his drumstick. “You snooze, you lose. Right below Conor—worst bunk on the bus.”

I didn’t know what Rhys meant, but it couldn’t possibly be the same thing I meant.

“Aren’t these bunks separated by gender or something?” My gaze flicked along the rows of occupied spaces.

“What do you think this is? Primary school?”

Rhys drummed a beat on my shoulder, and I brushed him off. “Will you stop? I’m beginning to think the absolute worst bunk would be anywhere near you.”

Conor choked out a laugh. “You tell him, Noelle. I’m not such a bad lad to sleep with.”

My heart thudded in my chest. Was I going to have to endure Conor’s double-entendres for six weeks—while I slept below him?

Conor shook his head. “I mean beneath, I mean...you know what I mean. Shut up, Rhys.”

Rhys chortled behind me.

“This is gonna be like a frat house in here with you two.” I narrowed my eyes at Conor. “Did you slip something in Robbie’s food or something to make him sick so you could replace him with your sidekick?”

The tour’s original drummer had to cancel, and Conor was quick to suggest Rhys, a drummer who worked with Five2Go after I left and joined Conor on some solo tours. They seemed close, but that was a good thing. Someone to keep Conor occupied and his attention off me.

Because that’s what I absolutely wanted.

“You want me to put your bag away for you? There’s a storage area at the foot of the bed that’s perfect for a carry-on.” Conor hopped off his bed and shoved his phone in his back pocket. “I swear I don’t snore. We’ll be staying in the hotel once we get to San Diego, anyway.”

“Right, and then we have Phoenix, so we might not be sleeping on the bus for that trip, either.” I wiped a sweaty palm on the thigh of my jeans.

“See?” He spread his hands. “Easy”

Nothing was going to be easy about this tour. I walked toward him, keeping my bag between us. “Has anyone heard from Ashley since the concert?”

Conor lifted my bag and stashed it in the cubby at the end of my bed, the muscles of his back bunching and flexing beneath his cotton T-shirt. He’d been a skinny boy when we were together, and my fingers tingled at the prospect of tracing all those new muscles.