Page 202 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“They’re all looking forward to meeting you.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting them too. And seeing your shop.”
“What aboutme?”
Stopping just shy of the edge of the station platform, I pace a few steps. “That goes without saying.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does!” I playfully roll my eyes. “But if you must hear, then yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you too.”
He chuckles. “Not as much as I am you.”
My heart skips a beat, then skips another for an entirely different reason when a drunk man hollers something nonsensical and stumbles toward me. Turning my back, I stroll in the opposite direction, closer to less inebriated commuters.
“What was that?” Riley demands.
“Nothing. Just some guy.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Trying to stand upright but failing.”
“Riles, I don’t like?—”
“My train is here,” I say as a beam of light illuminates the tunnel. “Gotta go.”
“Keep talking to me.”
“I can’t. It will cut out.”
“Then talk until it does.”
“Riley, stop worrying. I’m fine?—”
“I repaired a stool from the nineteenth century today,” he blurts.
“You did? Wow! That’s impressive.” The train pulls to a stop, so I step clear of the doors and enter the front car before taking a seat. “Your day was more exciting than mine. All I repaired were sentences.”
“Both are equally important, sweetheart. What else did you do?”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?”
“Keeping me talking.”
“It’s working, isn’t it?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “It is, but it’s going to cut out any sec?—”
The line goes dead as the train pulls away, so I type Riley a quick message, explaining that I’ll call him when I get home, then I slip my cell into my pocket. Although unnecessary, his concern for my well-being tugs my heartstrings. He cares, deeply, without chauvinism. A champion for women yet also a protector. It’s a desirable balance and one I take pleasure in, because I can still be meandfight for me without fear of misogynistic oppression.
Yawning, I recoil somewhat when a man takes the seat beside me despite the plethora of unoccupied rows of seats in the car. I frown at him and huff, irritated, then go to move away when he grabs my arm, his fingers painfully digging into my muscles as he holds me still.
“Give me your bag,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.
“Wha—”
