Marie pitched her voice low and quiet, so Ariana reflexively leaned closer to hear. “Ya know tis no a good idea ta get too friendly wit a fan wit that much emotional connection to ya. Ya listen to tha story, and tell em you are so glad you were able ta help, and maybe git em to buy a CD so ya kin autograph it special for em, an then ya STAY AWAY. Don encourage em. Those kind o fans can be trouble.”
Ariana goggled at her. The thought of Nathan being a… a… threat, after all they had been through together, and certainly after all the opportunity he had had nearly round the clock for almost three weeks, was a thought that just wouldn’t go down; like a garden snake trying to swallow an elephant. The person most likely to throw himself on a grenade to save her, and the person least likely to ever demand anything from her, were the same person as far as she was concerned. Except for that moment-of-weakness kiss, he had been a perfect gentleman. Her temper flaring uncontrollably, like a civilization-ending volcanic eruption, she spit out, “Don ya go suspectin Nathan o bein anythin o the sort; don ya dare!”
The tiniest twitch of Marie’s lip was like the triumphant smirk of a police detective on the verge of getting a signed confession. “An I suppose there will be an e-mail waitin for ya when ya get back on the bus?”
“I wouldna be surprised. Why does it matter?”
“An what might it say?”
“He’ll send he hopes I am doin well, what has happened on the forum lately, how he is doin, an,…,” she stopped with the wrench of stepping from an steamy Swedish sauna into an icy fjord.
Marie’s raised eyebrow was all the question she needed.
She desperately wanted to be rescued by an autograph request, the bus driver’s impatiently hooted horn, a sudden downpour, anything, but they were alone and the night was as quiet as the idling buses would let it be. And she couldn’t lie to Marie, and she couldn’t think of anything else, so she blurted out, “An the latest chapter o a book he is writin, fer me opinion, should I care ta give it.”
“Really? And what might tha book be aboot?”
She couldn’t say it was about the race, she couldn’t, for Marie was clever and smart and could put two and two together faster than anyone she ever met. “Tha would be tellin. I promised not ta discuss it til he’s ready ta publish.” And she knew he would never try to publish it without her approval. Another wave of panic battered her; she hadn’t actually read any of the chapters, and suddenly wondered what he had written. At this moment, fate finally relented, and the bus driver sounded the horn as a not-so-quiet reminder that there was a schedule to keep. Relief was sweeter than honey and cooler than grassy shade, and she made a dash for the door with Marie close behind her.