Love, in English

I thanked him and shrugged, adjusted my purse on my shoulder as I walked up to the bus. I knew people were looking down at me from their window seats and already making their judgements. But fuck it.

I took in a deep breath and climbed up the stairwell.

Everyone was staring at me as I stood in the middle of the aisle, quickly sca

Luckily, no one looked mad or upset at the interruption. Most were smiling. Some of the grey-haired folk eyed my tattoos and even my tiny nose ring stud with disdain, but that was normal.

Well, might as well introduce myself.

I raised my hand and waved it. “I’m Vera Miles,” I a

Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.

A cheery middle-aged man in a cowboy hat and checkered shirt nodded at me. “No more Spanish for these folks, they said it’s English only from here on in,” he said in a boisterous drawl, shooting me an apple-cheeked grin. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

“No, I was late,” I joked just as Manolo came back on board.

“Vera, sit please,” he said. “There’s a seat down there.” He quickly pointed down the aisle then climbed back into the driver’s seat, closing the hydraulic door.

The bus lurched forward and I steadied myself on the backs of people’s chairs. I made my way down the aisle as he pulled out into the road, giving everyone the shy “hey, I’m sorry” smile as I walked past. There really were people from all walks of life here. Even though it was hard at first to tell who was a native English speaker and who was Spanish, I started to pick up on the fact that every English person was seated beside a Spaniard and making awkward small talk. The Texan was right—the program had already begun.

I kept going until the second to last row where I had seen an empty seat. Actually, it was the only empty seat on the bus.

It was beside a man who was staring out the window, chin resting thoughtfully on his fist. I only had a good moment to take him in unabashedly before I had to sit down. After that, staring at him would become really awkward.

And for some reason, I wanted to stare at him.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t some reason. He was handsome. Like, wow, that’s a handsome guy, and then you nudge your friend and get her to take a look as well. That kind of handsome. Though I couldn’t see him straight on, he had a nice, strong face, broad nose with a bump on the bridge, and just the right amount of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His deep-set eyes looked rich brown, his longish, thick hair a shade darker than that and his brows even more so. I couldn’t tell how tall he was, he was at least a few inches taller than I was, but his body was fit and lean. His stomach looked washboard flat under his white dress shirt and his forearms that peeked out from the rolled up sleeves were muscular, the same color as wet sand, a beach in the afternoon light.

He was the stereotype of what I thought a Spanish man would look like, all dark looks and mysterious ways, and judging by his neatly pressed dark grey pants and the size of his Rolex on his wrist, he was a successful one at that.

Handsome business men were so not my type—I liked them roughed up and edgy and fun—but there was something about him that got me a little hot under the collar. I sat down as close to him as possible and, once again, hoped I didn’t stink.

He turned to look at me and offered me a smile that made me glad I was already sitting down, my joints feeling weak. It was stu

“Hello,” he said, in beautifully accented English. “I’m Mateo.”

He offered me his hand and that’s when I saw the wedding ring on his left hand, glinting from the sun that snuck in through the tinted window.

Married? Okay, definitely not my type.

Chapter Two

I shook Mateo’s hand, surprised at his warm, firm grip. “I’m Vera, nice to meet you,” I said before I ever so subtly adjusted myself so that I there was a good amount of space between us. It was just as well that he was a married businessman. I hadn’t come here to sleep with the first Spanish man I’d met. Otherwise I’d end up in bed with the man I was miming to on the street.

“Vera,” Mateo repeated, his voice smooth and polished as glass. “You have just arrived and already you have made me feel better about myself.”

I frowned at him, curious and finding his carefully pronounced English adorable. “How so?”

“I was late also. I thought I would spend the whole ride alone.” He smiled warmly. “So. Tell me about yourself.”

I flipped my hair over my shoulder and gri

“Three hours, he said.” He nodded up the aisle at Manolo. “We’re supposed to talk the whole ride.” He gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “More or less.”

He was right. Everyone on the bus was murmuring to each other in a forced and kind of awkward way, a range of accents and tones filling the space.

“All right,” I said, feeling immediately comfortable around him. Then again, it was often that way when you were with married men. There were no expectations or misunderstandings—you could just relax and be yourself. “How about we ask each other questions? Take turns. You know, I go first and you go second.” I hadn’t meant to be patronizing but his English was so good that I’d forgotten why he was here.

“I know what taking turns means,” he said good-naturedly.

“Well then that brings me to my first question,” I said. Normally I would have slapped his leg in flirty good fun but I decided against it. Okay, so maybe I couldn’t be exactly like myself. “Why are you here? You speak really good English.”

“My company,” he said. “My English is good, yes, but not so when compared to you. In an international market, those who are fluent in English remain at the top. If you don’t speak so well,” he waved his hand back and forth and winced, “eh, then you are looked at as being dumb.”

“You’re definitely not dumb,” I told him.

He smiled faintly. He had nice lips. “You don’t know me after some beer.”

“A lightweight, I see.”

He frowned. “Light…weight?”

Well he certainly wasn’t dumb but I could see he didn’t know everything. Time to try out my non-existing teaching skills. Lord knew that’s all I’d be doing for the next month. I could only hope that it would feel as easy as it did with Mateo—a stranger up until a few minutes ago—but I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.

I sat back in my seat. “Yeah, lightweight. It means that you can’t handle your liquor very well. One drink gets you buzzed, the next gets you drunk.”

“Buzzed?” he asked. “Like a bee? I do not understand.” His brows furrowed, his expression endearing. He had really striking eyebrows.

I had to stop thinking like that.

“Kinda,” I said. Actually no, it was better not to confuse him. “Okay, buzzed is like when you’re feeling good. Loosey goosesy,” I waved my arms up and down like a spaced-out hippie. “Tipsy. Almost drunk. You know, you’re like…”

“Happy,” he filled in.

“Yes,” I said. Well, unless you were drinking and in a shitty mood, then that first drink just makes the tears fall. But that was neither here nor there.

“Do you get…happy, Vera?” he asked. His voice was lower and leaned into me ever so slightly. I caught a whiff of fresh-smelling cologne, something expensive that probably came in a turquoise bottle. The cologne made me happy.

I gave him a small smile, suddenly self-conscious. I had expected his eyes to be resting on my cleavage, this damn black tank top kept falling down so low, but he was staring forward at the seat in front of us, waiting patiently for my answer.