'Cara Bastone is one of the most talented writers in the romance genre today. With her signature blend of heart, humor, and honesty, Cara's books remind you that the best stories begin and end with hope' LYSSA KAY ADAMS The audio bestseller, available for the first time in ebook! True love is on the line in Audie Award nominee Cara Bastone's charming, laugh-out-loud rom-com, perfect for fans of Netflix's Love is Blind, Jo Watson, Lauren Layne and Hannah Orenstein! 'The thing I love most about Cara Bastone's books is her ability to find the romance in ordinary lives, the swoon in simple places . . . just normal folks falling in love. I ADORE it' 5* reader review for Call Me Maybe .......................................................
I have exactly 5 hours and 10 minutes to get from Boston to New York City or the professional opportunity of a lifetime disappears. My only travel option? The second to last seat on a discount bus. Across from the bathroom. Wearing last night's clothes (don't ask). All worth it if I can make it in time.
My nerves almost get the best of me, but then there he is, sitting down in the seat next to me. Tall. Friendly smile. Bright indigo streak in his brown hair. The perfect distraction. Turns out he's on his way to reconnect with an old flame. The one that got away. We can both make it on time - just barely - if the traffic keeps flowing.
Playing road-trip games, avoiding calls from his mother, and effortless conversation keeps us from clockwatching . . . until the bus breaks down. And my seatmate turns into my copilot as we wrangle a ride in a car three decades old. And hit all the traffic. And oh, Lord, the detours. And somehow I end up careening cross-town on the handlebars of a Citi Bike carrying a box of kittens. (Yeah, don't ask.)
He's my hero every step of the way . . . and I might be falling for him. But what happens when we reach our final destination? Could my seatmate really be my soulmate? ....................................................... Look out for more Love Lines from Cara Bastone! Call Me Maybe and Sweet Talk are out now! And readers LOVE them!
'An adorable and thoroughly enjoyable read . . . I didn't want it to end'
'This is a short, sweet romance that I really enjoyed. Both Cal and Vera were great characters and I loved how this book starts with their conversation which was so much fun to read! . . . I was rooting for them so much'
'I love the concept of this book . . . I felt it captured it perfectly in ebook form. I've never read anything like it and for that I loved it!'
'A short fun read. I loved both of the main characters . . . Looking forward to reading more from this author'
Release date:
June 28, 2022
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
240
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“So . . . I take it literally every other seat was already occupied on the bus?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I honestly can’t think of another reason why someone would electively choose the aisle seat in the back row directly across from a bus bathroom.”
“Yeah . . . probably should have gotten here a few minutes earlier. I’m just glad I didn’t miss the bus.”
“Well, here we go.”
“Bye, Boston.”
“In this traffic, I think you’re going to have at least another hour to say goodbye to Boston.”
“Right. Uh . . . You know, it helps if you don’t think of it as traffic. Just imagine that the bus is legally obligated to drive all the way to New York at thirty miles per hour. That way it’s a lot less frustrating.”
“Ah, I see the logic in that. Just surrender to what you can’t control.”
“Precisely.”
“I’m Gwen, by the way.”
“Hi, Gwen. I’m Sam.”
“Nice to meetcha.”
“Yes, um. You too.”
“I like your hair.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks. It’s new. The indigo part, I mean. The brown part is the same as always.”
“You don’t see a lot of indigo hair.”
“Yeah. The hairstylist was very excited when I asked for it.”
“Oh, you went to a stylist? That’s why it looks so neat and tidy. Most people dye their hair interesting colors while they’re kneeling over their bathtub, trying not to dye their fingers the same color.”
“Ha, yeah? Sounds like you have some personal experience with that?”
“I would argue that dyeing your hair an unflattering shade of red is actually a really productive and healthy way to get through a break-up. Maybe even a rite of passage.”
“Ah.”
“Is that why you dyed yours? Rebellion after an overbearing ex?”
“Huh? Oh, definitely not. No. I guess I just thought, um, time for a change? I got it done on Friday and they haven’t seen it at work yet. So, I guess we’ll see tomorrow morning if I have to shave it all off.”
“Oh, I hope you don’t shave it! Just dye it back if you have to. It would be a shame to lose all that hair. You’ve got a very . . . Pepé Le Pew thing going on. Except, your stripe is indigo not white.”
“Oh, brother. That is definitely not what I was going for with this hairstyle.”
“Skunk who can’t take a hint isn’t the vibe you were going for? How odd.”
“Yeah, no. Pepé was a twerp. Is he even still on the air? I hope not. His whole no means yes thing is just creepy when you think about it.”
“Agreed. He had great hair though.”
“Oh. Sorry about the annoying ringtone. I should probably . . .”
“No worries, go ahead.”
“Hey, Ma . . . Yup, I made it. Sorry, I should have texted you . . . Already on the I-95 . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . No, you didn’t. Are you serious? Hold on, let me . . . Oh, a tuna-fish sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Thanks, Ma. That was sweet of you . . . Yes, I’m buckled. I swear. Did you call Aunt Laura yet? . . . Well, you’ll feel better when you do . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . . Well, it’s rude to talk on the phone on the bus, so I’ll call you when I get in . . . Don’t worry, it’ll be fine . . . Love you too. Bye. Ahem. Ah, sorry about that.”
“No problem at all. Your mom?”
“Yup.”
“She seems caring.”
“She is. Maybe a little too much? But, anyhow. Don’t worry.”
“Hm?”
“I’m not going to eat a tuna-fish sandwich and a hard-boiled egg on an enclosed bus.”
“Oh, thank God. I think my life flashed before my eyes.”
“Yeah, that’s my mother for ya. Sweet enough to pack you a secret lunch, unbothered enough to pack the stinkiest foods known to mankind.”
“Look, I know it’s lunchtime, but if you can choke down a hard-boiled egg while sitting across from a Megabus bathroom then you deserve some kind of medal. Seriously, I wouldn’t even be mad. I’d be impressed.”
“Speaking of the bathroom, I think we have an incoming.”
“Oh, boy. Quick, let’s talk about something else.”
“So that we’re not thinking about whatever is happening in there?”
“Exactly.”
“Um . . . Um . . . I’m terrible at thinking of topics.”
“So, your mother is in Boston, but you work in New York?”
“Oh. Yes. Correct.”
“And you live in New York?”
“Also correct. She’s lived in the Boston area her whole life. I moved to New York for undergrad and never left.”
“Which borough do you live in?”
“Queens. Sunnyside.”
“Oh, that’s a great neighborhood.”
“You’ve spent time there?”
“I’ve spent time in every borough.”
“So . . . NYC is home for you too, then?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Ugh. Sorry, let me check this text.”
“Bad news?”
“Huh? Oh. Not really. Just this guy, he’s sort of my work rival and every so often he taunts me over text.”
“He’s . . . a grown man?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
“And he’s taunting you over text? What an ass.”
“Yeah, I wish it were more complicated than that, but pretty much you just hit the nail on the head.”
“So, hold on . . . What does yes, no, sort of mean?”
“Hm?”
“Is New York not home for you?”
“Oh. Well, I travel for work so I don’t really spend enough time at my apartment to think of it as home. But yeah, New York generally is home. I moved there right after high school as well. So, where did you go to school?”
“Hunter. What’s your job, then? That requires so much travel?”
“I’m a photographer. And a writer. And you?”
“Oh, wow. That’s so cool. Do you work for a magazine or something?”
“I freelance. And can usually get an article or two in my buddy’s lifestyle magazine. But for the most part I run a blog.”
“A blog? Cool. How would I find it?”
“Oh . . . you want to see it?”
“Definitely.”
“Ah. Here. I can pull it up on my phone.”
“Holy smokes, Gwen, these photos are gorgeous. Do you mostly focus on jewelry?”
“Well, my main interests lie in how and why people choose to decorate themselves in general. Often that’s jewelry. But it’s also tattoos, fashion, protective gear, hairstyles, you name it.”
“Ah. Hence your interest in my hair.”
“Well, it is pretty interesting hair. About that, actually—”
“So, you meet people, photograph them and their . . . decoration choices and then write about them?”
“Yeah, I do long interviews with them. Sometimes I end up spending a whole day, or even a few days with them, depending on how well we hit it off. But I find that it’s usually a great entry point into getting someone talking about themselves. Why they dress the way they do or why that particular tattoo in that particular place or ‘this was my mother’s locket that she gave me on her deathbed and I’ve never taken it off,’ that kind of thing. Oh, shhh! I think they’re coming out of the bathroom!”
“Wow.”
“Don’t look up. Just ignore it. Stay focused on this space here, between us. Whatever happens over there does not concern us, Sam.”
“Right, right. The bathroom eighteen inches to my left does not exist. Okay, um, in the interest of distraction: question. And if it’s too impertinent, feel free to tell me to shove it.”
“Okay . . .”
“Because, seriously, it really might not be any of my business.”
“Uh huh.”
“But this is where my mind automatically goes when I hear about someone with a job like yours. And I know that might mean I’m a really . . . boring person, but yeah.”
“What’s the question?”
“Oh! Right. Well, how, exactly, do you make money?”
“Ah, of course. The age-old question. Moolah. Well, when I was first getting started, I was usually able to find waitressing work wherever I went. Which was actually a really great way to meet people to interview. I worked as a tour guide once, though that was a disaster because I was more interested in hearing about the people’s lives than I was in telling them about what they were looking at. Then when things started picking up and I got better at both photography and writing, like I said, I got the occasional article in my friend’s mag. That helped make ends meet a little. But now there’s enough traffic on my blog that I sell ad space.”
“Wow. You must be really successful, then.”
“Well, moderately successful. I usually make just enough to be able to cover my next trip to somewhere else. You are really good at getting someone talking, by the way. I never usually go into such detail.”
“Ha. Wow. Definitely no one has ever said that to me before. I guess I’m just genuinely interested. So . . . do you have one? A next trip lined up?”
“I’m hoping, hoping, that in a month or so I’ll be in Portugal if I can get the money to work out. But I’ll have to land this big project.”
“Portugal. Wow.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. I’ve never actually left the States. Barely even left the East Coast, to be honest. My mother’s not a great traveler and I spend a lot of time with her, so when I’m using vacation days we’re usually in the Boston area together. Aaaaaand, right about now is when I wish I was really good at lying. Because then maybe I wouldn’t have just admitted to a world-traveling photographer and writer that I pretty much use up all my vacation days at a knit shop helping my mom pick out her next project. Just pretend I said something way cooler than that, please.”
“It doesn’t sound uncool to me.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I mean . . . I guess it’s uncool if you say it is. But . . . there’s nothing inherently wrong with knitting shops. And besides, I don’t think you’re terrible at lying. You lied to your mother.”
“When?”
“You told her you were buckled in.”
“Oh. Right. I mean, do these things even have seat belts?”
“Of course not. But your mother doesn’t know that.”
“She’s been trying for years to get me to move back to Boston, so I think finding out that there aren’t any seat belts on the Megabus I take once a month to see her might push her over the edge.”
“You take this trip once a month? Good Lord, you must have an incredibly high pain tolerance.”
“Like I said, as long as you can dissociate from the pace of the traffic it’s not so bad. Oh. And noise canceling headphones help a lot.”
“Oh. Am I keeping you from your headphones? Sorry. By all means, plug in. I can totally occupy myself over here.”
“Oh, ah—Shoot, sorry. That’s my mom calling again. Let me just . . .”
“Go ahead.”
“Hey, Ma . . . Yup. 95. For a long time . . . Oh, good, you talked to Aunt Laura . . . Uh huh . . . Wait. No. Ma . . . No. No, I really don’t want—Do I really have to remind you how bad the last blind date was? Puke, Ma, there was puke involved . . . I don’t want you and Aunt Laura to set me up again . . . I’m sure she’s great but—Oh fine. Just give me her number and I’ll—What? What do you mean she’s meeting me at the bus stop?! That’s . . . that’s . . . I actually have no words . . . This is . . . I can’t . . . Ma . . . Look, I’m in public right now. I don’t want to fight about this, but you need to fix this immediately. Call this woman up and tell her not to meet me at the bus stop! I have to go. Love you.”
“Um. Wow?”
“Urghhhhhhhh. I can’t believe that just happened.”
“So . . .”
“Any chance you didn’t actually hear all of that?”
“We’re sitting next to one another. So yeah. I heard all of that.”
“Honey, even I heard that too, from one row up.And a little word from the wise? Cut her loose.”
“How am I supposed to cut her loose? I don’t even have her number!”
“No, not the blind date. Your mother!”
“I can’t cut my mother loose. She’s my mother. But yes. Point taken. I could probably stand to answer the phone a little less. Here. I’ll just put it on silent. Oh, she just texted me. Oh, my God. Look what she wrote, Gwen.”
“It says: She’ll be there by seven. Don’t worry, I already warned her about your hair.”
“God grant me strength to deal with my mother.”
“Your mother is stone cold, son. Good luck.”
“What’s your name, ma’am? I’m Gwen and this is Sam.”
“I’m Shirley. Nice to meet you both. I’m going back to my program, but if there are any more updates on the blind date, give me a poke.”
“You got it, Shirley.”
“Nice to meet you, Shirley. Oh, Gwen, there’s another text.”
“Read it out loud to me. I’m getting motion sick from reading.”
“It says: She’s a good Catholic girl from Scituate. Planning on moving home from New York around Christmastime. Fourth-grade teacher. Wear deodorant, honey.”
“Do ya often skip deodorant, Sam?”
“No! And definitely not when I’m going to be sitting next to a stranger on a bus.”
“Much appreciated. At least you have that going for you when you meet the woman of your dreams in just a few hours.”
“What makes you think she’s the woman of my dreams?”
“Um, according to your mother she’s a good Catholic girl from Scituate? She sounds lovely.”
“Sure. And she’s a fourth-grade teacher who’s moving back to the Boston area by Christmas. It’s like my mother selected her from a mail-order catalogue.”
“Sam, your mother has gone out of her way to find the perfect person for you to immediately settle down and spend the rest of your life with. Yet, for some strange reason, you sound less than enthused.”
“Imagine that.”
“A non-consensual blind date set up by your mom isn’t how you envisioned meeting your dream girl? How odd.”
“Maybe, maybe, if this was the first time, I might take it more seriously.”
“She makes a habit of drop-kicking you into blind dates?”
“This makes . . . seven? Eight?”
“Woof.”
“Yeah.”
“And the last one involved puke?”
“Preceded by quite a bit of binge drinking. Hers. Not mine. It’s not like any of these dates have ever gone well. But that one was a particular low.”
“Your mother is zero for eight? Really? There hasn’t been a single good date amongst all of them?”
“If I’m being honest . . . I don’t think that’s her fault. It’s not like every single one of those women were duds. I mean, none of them were duds. The binge-drinker was clearly going through something at the time and we weren’t a match. But for the most part they. . .
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