I grin at him. I’m not sure why I think this is a good idea. I guess I just want to share something with him, even as simple as driving.
Naturally Nick is pissed off, even though I can tell he’s tired of being behind the wheel.
“It’s going to take twice as long now to get there,” he says as he begrudgingly sits in the back beside Amber.
“He’s not going to drive the whole time, let him have some fun,” I admonish him.
Josh climbs into the driver’s side and tilts his chin down, looking up at me through his dark lashes. “Fun?”
I smile and shut the passenger door, snapping on my seat belt. “You can at least drive stick, right?”
“Of course,” he says, staring at the wheel and instrument panel with thinly veiled trepidation. “Herman is manual.”
“Herman?”
He gives me a grin. “Yeah, I named my VW, too. He’s a Golf though, so half of Mr. Orange’s size. Bought him last year with the money I won from an art contest.”
I’m impressed. “Nice.” I’d seen Josh’s work in his room, so I knew he was talented, but it says something when other people recognize it, too. For a moment I feel like throwing a smug look over my shoulder at Nick—he who believes the arts are a waste of time—but I keep my attention on Josh instead.
He turns the key and Mr. Orange starts with a throaty grumble. He moves his feet around and gives off a small sigh. “At least all the foot pedals are in the right spot.”
That said, we still lurch around for a moment. I’m glad we’re on a side road and not the highway. “The clutch is sticky,” I say, trying to make him feel better as Amber and Nick get tossed around in the back.
“The whole bus is sticky,” he grumbles, but his eyes are dancing and he’s looking more alive than he has all day. I settle back in my seat, my feet propped up on the glove compartment as Josh gives me a sidelong glance, not so subtly ogling the length of my legs that my shorts show off.
He catches my eye and doesn’t look ashamed to have been caught checking me out. In fact, his expression lights up. He likes that I know.
I like that I know, too.
By the time we reach the highway, he seems to have gotten the hang of shifting with his left hand and doesn’t even flinch when traffic passes on the “wrong” side.
Josh ends up taking us all the way down to Paekakariki. We spend the next three hours talking and laughing, and it’s like our own little world up here, where it’s just the two of us and the passing green scenery. There’s just something so easy about him, about the way I can relate to him and the way he relates to me. All those wicked little feelings I had about him during our night together come back with more punch.
My brain wants to do battle again and I reluctantly let it win. Whatever I’m feeling, it can’t stay.
By the time we roll into Paekakariki, the sun is low on the horizon, coating the wild Tasman Sea in waves of gold. Most people would pass by this tiny settlement on the way to Wellington, our nation’s capital, and I only know about it because I’d gone to Wellington once with an ex-boyfriend and all the affordable places were booked. We took the train out to this town because we had heard good things about the sole backpacker’s hostel they had. Though the ex moved on, the memories remained.
“This is cute,” Amber says in a hushed voice from the back, her wide green eyes taking in the “town,” which consists, basically, of one street. There’s a dairy, or corner store, with all the basics, a pizza shop, a real estate office, a white clapboard church, a post office, a pub, and an empty storefront with a for lease sign.
On one side, right beside the highway, are giant, imposing green hills dotted with sheep. They loom over the town, begging you to touch them, climb them. On the other side of the town is a long strand of wild beach, roaring waves, and the long, crocodilelike body of Kapiti Island, a nature sanctuary.
“Where’s the hostel?” Josh asks and I tell him to take his next right. There are basically only two blocks between the highway and the beach, but we tempt fate by bringing Mr. Orange up a long, twisting driveway to the top of a small rise. He puts the bus into park, slamming on the hand brake, and peers at the house.
It looks like a quaint residence, not a hostel, but that’s part of the appeal. In fact, you would never know it was a hostel if it weren’t for the discreet sign at the base of the driveway that says PARAKEET BEACH BACKPACKERS.
We carefully climb out of the bus, our sore muscles extra tight from all the sitting, and see a black-and-white cat hanging around the front door, our welcoming committee. Leaving our gear in the bus for now, we walk into the house. It already smells amazing as bursts of basil and sizzling garlic hit my nose. The kitchen to the left is being used by two tall guys who are taking advantage of the stove. They give us a friendly wave then go back to cooking.