Holding my breath, I pick it up and make a short, punctuated sound that halts the conversation between the truck drivers. “This…this is the first issue of Comeback Girl. This is literally number one. One!” I can’t breathe. All I can do is stare down at the item in my hands, afraid to damage it. “Where did this come from?”
And how long has it been sitting here?
There are tears in my eyes. I hold the comic to my chest as carefully as possible, hugging it like an old friend. I’m probably dreaming, but this is the best one I’ve ever had. Almost as amazing as the truck driver dream from last night, which I’m positive now must have been my overactive imagination trying to entertain itself. Only…
I told Hoss about my Comeback Girl obsession, didn’t I?
Does that mean this number one issue is an extension of the dream?
Or does that mean last night was real?
With a frown, I turn toward the kitchen, planning to put the comic safely in my purse where it won’t get damaged. Comeback Girl isn’t a popular comic and this won’t be worth a fortune or anything, but to me, it’s pure gold.
As I start to turn, a new figure appears out of nowhere at the end of the counter and I jolt back, nearly dropping the glossy magazine in my hands. Hoss.
Hoss is back. Sitting at the end of the counter.
He’s here.
Chocolate-brown hair in disarray. A black eye. Cut lip. Lounged back casually.
His expression is anything but casual, though. His eyes are twin blue beams that could burn a hole right through a superhero’s body armor. That jaw is bunched, his right hand in a fist on the counter. He is making the other customers uncomfortable, obviously, because they throw a tip on the counter and skedaddle toward the exit without so much as a thank you in my direction.
A lot like last night when I was in the presence of the trucker, my belly starts to feel funny, flexing in odd places that make me uncomfortable and curious at the same time. My shirt goes from professional to indecent in two seconds flat, my bra too flimsy to hide the way my nipples harden with awareness. I suddenly have the urge to play with my hair. I can feel his big fingers in my side last night, searching out spots that made my womanhood clench, made me strain to keep from peeing my panties.
I assumed my loud laughter turned him off.
But he’s back. Does that mean he liked it?
Liked…tickling me? Liked touching me, period?
“You don’t have that one,” he says, voice gravelly. “Do you?”
Disbelief steals over me. Even though I had a suspicion Hoss left me the comic, I can’t quite wrap my head around the gesture. What it means. “You…this was you?”
His fingers drum once on the counter. Slowly. One fingertip at a time, one by one. “It had better only be me leaving you presents, Tatum.”
Oh. Oh my.
Is he my boyfriend now?
Am I too dense or inexperienced to know what’s going on here?
“You are. Mostly. Someone brought me a little Route 66 sign once with my name on it. You know how they have those turnstiles in gift shops with a whole bunch of names on key chains or refrigerator magnets? They never have a Tatum, so that was a nice gift to receive. Just knowing it’s out there somewhere on a turnstile for other little Tatums to find. You know?” My heart is walloping in my chest as I go toward him. “This is the best gift I’ve ever, ever received, though. Where did you find it?” I study the damage on his chiseled face. “And did you have to beat somebody up for it?”
“No.” He touches a tongue to his split lip. “This was a separate job.”
Swallowing, I glance toward the parking lot. “Did you have an accident with your truck?”
“No.”
Alarm bells are beginning to clang in the back of my head. “Do you have a second job? Something besides driving a rig?”
He stares at me for long, silent moments before inclining his head slightly. “Yes, Tatum. I do.”
The front door of the diner opens and closes. The teen couple is gone.
Now it’s just me and Hoss in the diner, no sound except for the oldies playing. The ticking of the giant neon clock. The rush of the interstate in the distance. And my pulse. I can hear that pounding like a fist on a door. “This second job involves you getting into fights?” His jaw ticks in response. “Should I be…nervous?”