Tides of the Heart (Crestwood Chronicles #1)

Chapter 4

I pretend I don't see him.

Like a mature and well-adjusted adult, I pretend I don't see or hear Hazel as I approach the bus and load my pack into the back alongside everyone else's. Fortunately, we're on a tight schedule, and because the bus that got me here was running behind, I'm almost late, so there's no time for lengthy introductions. As Professor MacDowell proclaims, we'll all know each other as well, and possibly better, than we care to before our time together ends.

Though the last to arrive, I'm the first to take a seat. I choose one in the row beside the window, where I expect to be left in peace—at least until a guy wearing a Jurassic Park shirt takes the seat next to me and introduces himself with a simple question.

"Star Trek, or Star Wars?"

Figuring he might leave me alone if I choose poorly, I stack my bets and go with "both."

Unfortunately, my gamble doesn't pay off this time.

"Oh, cool! Me, too! I'm George, by the way. Just like George Lucas," he adds, as if George wasn't a fairly common name and there was more than one way to spell it.

"Sweet. I'm Charlie."

"Like Charlie Brown?"

George gives me his undivided attention, as if this question is very important to him, and I catch on that, if not exactly missing marbles, he's likely playing with a different set than most people.

"Yeah, just like Charlie Brown."

George grins, evidently pleased. Bracing myself for two hours of debating whether the Romulans or the Cardassians were better villains and what went wrong with the prequels apart from Jar Jar Binks, I settle in for the ride, when something even worse happens.

"Hey, uh, you're in my seat."

I look up. Hazel stands in the aisle beside George, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

George jumps up like he sat on a tack. "Oh, sorry! I didn't know the seats were assigned!"

"They're not," Hazel says. "I picked this one out earlier, is all. Do you mind? "

"Oh, no, not at all."

George gathers his pack and moves up the aisle to take the last remaining seat, where I hear him introduce himself again with the same question. Unfortunately, the guy he sat next to this time gives an answer I hadn't even considered—"Neither, I hate sci-fi,"—and I cringe at the idea of what the next two and half hours holds for the pair in terms of conversation.

As the driver starts the engine and the bus rumbles into motion, Hazel drops into the seat next to me and treats me to a dazzling smile. Without conscious effort, I note he's still as handsome as my first half-drowned impression led me to believe. His eyes are a brilliant blue framed by dark lashes, and his hair—perfectly tousled—is a fitting hazelnut brown.

Frowning, I ask, "Did you really reserve that seat?"

"Not this one, specifically," he admits amicably. "Just whichever seat was next to you."

Heat creeps up my neck to my face, and I look out the window. "Guess you wanted a quiet ride, then. I told you not to talk to me."

"I know. I wanted to apologize."

"So apologize in writing."

"Okay. Give me your number."

"What?" Surprised, I twist in my seat to look at him. His eyes sparkle with humor.

"So I can text you my apology. My handwriting sucks."

I shake my head, deflating, and turn away again. "Forget it. I overreacted anyway."