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Chapter One
Tatum
It’s a Tuesday night and it’s raining. I’ve only made $13.50 in tips since my shift started at four o’clock and the parking lot of the truck stop diner is empty, so I guess I’m not leaving here a millionaire tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I murmur, using my breath to fog up the window, etching a little heart into the condensation with my pinkie finger. Humming to myself, I lean my forehead against the cool center of the heart and let myself drift, green neon blurring where it reflects in the expanding puddles on the other side of the glass.
I close my eyes and think of the panel I’m working on, envisioning a pencil in my hand, the lead tip scratching along the surface of the paper, adding details to worlds I create in my own imagination. My sketchbook is in back of the diner, tucked into my messenger bag where it hangs on the coat hook. My boss doesn’t like me working on my comics in the diner, but surely he’ll make an exception when there isn’t a single customer in sight.
A little buzz of excitement zaps my fingers and they twitch, my butt already scooting toward the aisle of the booth where I’ve been daydreaming since sunset. I chew my lip in anticipation of where I’m going to take the scene next. Maybe I’ll make myself a chocolate shake to really get those creative juices flowing—
Blinding lights sweeps across the interior of the diner.
I shield my eyes until it cuts off, then scoot back toward the window to peer out, already knowing it’s going to be a rig. The diner is located on the edge of the interstate, so almost all of my customers are truck drivers, hauling goods from point A to B. Passing through. They’re stopping for a cup of bottomless coffee to help stay awake. Maybe some conversation to remind them they’re alive after fourteen hours on the road with no one to keep them company. My boss is always saying this is the perfect job for me, because I’m a chatterbox and truck drivers are the only ones who don’t mind someone else’s voice nattering on about everything from the latest celebrity gossip to comics.
The door of the rig slams in the parking lot and I reach for my apron, but my hand pauses in mid-air, my breath catching at the sight of the figure slowly cutting toward the entrance through the rain. It’s a downpour and he’s not even hurrying to get out of the wet. His slow stride is purposeful and measured, head down, rain soaking into his gray T-shirt and jeans. As he gets closer, I spy the rivulets of water snaking down his forearms like veins, the droplets hanging on the ends of his dark brown hair.
Why do I feel anchored to the leather seat?
I’m supposed to be up already, preparing a menu and a mug of coffee, a greeting on my tongue. Instead, my mouth is dry, stomach clenched while I wait for the bell to ding over the door. Rain pounds harder against the window and I swallow heavily, my pulse picking up when the lights flicker overhead, signaling the potential for a power outage. Maybe I’m naïve, but I’ve never been nervous to be alone in the diner before. Sure, the cook is in back watching television on his overturned bucket, but I almost never see his face. He cooks and goes home. Not really someone I would rely on for protection.
The bell rings over the door, seemingly louder than usual.
I jolt to attention in the seat and whisper, “Move,” to myself, inching my butt toward the aisle, attempting to put my apron back on at the same time. My fingers are incapable of securing the tie behind my back, though, because he’s inside now, stopped dead in his tracks just inside the door, and his eyes…they pierce me like a bullet.
My lord, he’s big and thick.
Handsome in a weathered way. Like he started off pretty but saw some things along the way and lines were etched on his face, features turned a little weary. My fingers twitch, wishing to put those unique lines on paper. To replicate the sinew of his shoulder in my sketchbook.
That drenched shirt is stuck to muscles I don’t typically see on my regulars. He must be a new driver. Hasn’t gone soft from sitting for long hours and existing on road food yet. This man appears to be in his early thirties, too. Younger than my usual crowd. And about ten times as intense. His jaw pops while looking me over, his attention tracing down and over the generous curve of my hips, down to the tips of my sneakers. Back up to my dark, messy ponytail.
He makes a low groaning sound and drags long, blunt fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back from his face—and then he’s picking toward me, slowly, leaving wet footprints in his wake. I have the strong urge to run and I don’t know why. Maybe I have an undiscovered sixth sense like so many of the superheroes in my comics. Mine is knowing things are about to change. That’s what this man’s eyes are telling me. Nothing is ever going to be the same.
I snatch up a laminated menu from the closest table and hold it in front of me like a shield. He watches me do this with an amused flick of his brow, stopping when his boots are two feet from my sneakers. “Hello,” he rasps in a voice like smoky midnight.
“Hello,” I whisper, tilting my head back to maintain eye contact. This man is well above six foot three and I’m a full foot shorter. “Are you here to tell me I’m a long-lost descendant of a revered warrior and I have to come with you to fight in a battle between good and evil?”
Three ticks of the oversized neon wall clock go by. “No.”
“Oh,” I breathe, realizing I just said all of that out loud and my face is turning beet red as a result. “Just here for coffee, then?”
Blue-black eyes track a path down the center of my breasts. “Something like that.”
I’m usually launching into my third topic by now, but this stranger has me completely tongue tied. I’ve never been so aware of the tight fit of my white blouse or the high hem of the black skirt it’s tucked into. I’m still making a feeble attempt to tie my apron and with my hands behind my back, the blouse is stretching over my breasts more than usual—and he’s watching. Jaw clenched, he’s watching—
And then he moves so quickly, I gasp in alarm.
I’m being turned around by his strong, impatient hands. Before I know what’s happening, he has taken hold of the apron strings, yanked them tight enough to jerk my hips back, and tied them soundly into a bow. It’s such an intimate—and let’s face it, inappropriate— gesture coming from a stranger that I don’t know how to respond. I should probably call the police, but I can only stand there and breathe, goosebumps decorating every inch of my skin. The heat of his breath ghosts over the back of my neck and I whimper, my loins constricting for the first time in my life. I’m…aroused. By a man. For the first time in my twenty-one years.
My eyes fly wider than they already are.
I was beginning to think it would never happen.
But why is my body responding to a man I also seem to…fear?
Maybe I’m fearful because I’m turned on? Because the feeling is so new?
His breath turns hot on the side of my neck, his body heat permeating the thin layer of my blouse and heating my spine. My shoulders. If I lean to the right, my ear will touch his mouth. What is happening here? Am I still sitting in the booth daydreaming?
