Page 104 of Small Town Hunter

“You could barely call that wait. Everything good?”

“Oh, yes.”

He’s wearing blue jeans that aren’t ripped or faded, but crisp and blue. A white shirt, tucked in, with a broad leather belt and a silver concho. Gone is the ratty Trucker hat, and instead he’s wearing a pinch-front in the same color leather as his belt. His size and giant muscles are emphasized in all the right places (or the wrong ones) and I remember running my hands over those big burly arms while he sucked on my breasts.

Stop, brain!

Lord, where did he get those nice clothes? That hat? I only know it’s Crash and not some imposter by the state of his boots.

“You look nice,” we say at the same time, and laugh.

His eyes take me in from head to toe. “The color brown suits you.”

“It’s burnt Sienna, actually.”

His lip twitches. “Right.”

He gives me his arm and I take it. We walk formally to his truck and he helps me inside with a hand at the small of my back. Even those little touches send shivers down my spine. He almost never touches me now.

“Got you coffee,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks round to the driver’s side.

The sight of the giant cup full of foam, sugar, cream and caramel sauce is the best thing I’ve seen all morning after Crash in those blue jeans.

“Thank you,” I say reverently. “I already had two cups this morning but it just isn’t the same.”

“Addict,” he smiles. “The Blue Midge cafe got new ownership and now they make them girly Starbucks drinks and my plain black coffee cost four dollars. But for you it’s worth it.”

“How much did this cost?” The cup is nearly the size of my arm.

He clutches his heart and we both laugh.

“Buckle up,” he says, pushing the clutch and throwing the truck into first. We pull out of the sleepy little holler where I’m staying, a place called Belle Hills. The apartment I am subleasing is in a small white duplex, and I share the top with an old lady named Mrs. Sarita who thinks Crash is my boyfriend.

“How have you been?” I ask him as we pulls away from the house.

He clears his throat. “Good.”

“How is Ruby?”

“She’s great.”

“How is work?”

“Wonderful.”

Maybe he’s not in a talking mood. I twist my hands together.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What? Um, nothing.”

“You do that with your hands when you’re nervous.”

“Er — my blood sugar must be low.”

“Okay, Trina.”

“Alright, Crash.”

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