Page 27 of Truck Stop Titan

Little One didn’t budge.

Rocky’s brows crinkled.

“Rocky makes the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted. Maybe he can make us one later.”

Little One sat straighter.

“Do you like to swing?” Rocky asked, pointing to the tree. “I helped build that one. It goes super high, but if you’re scared, I can push soft, so it only swings a little bit.”

She didn’t make a sound, but her body vibrated against mine.

“Why doesn’t she talk?” Rocky asked, an innocent question from a curious mind. “Does she have automism? My friend in school has automism. Some kids make fun of him, but I don’t.”

“No, Rocky, she doesn’t have autism. She just hasn’t found anything worth saying yet.” I gave Little One a squeeze. “What do you think? Wanna try out that swing?”

She inched off my leg, her toes dusting the grass, then scooted more, until her feet lay flat. I mentally urged her forward. Excruciating seconds passed before the girl let go of my shirt and took a step toward Rocky. That damn mini lady killer took her hand and bolted for the swing, and fuck me if she didn’t follow, looking back only once to make sure I was still there.

Swear to Christ, a lump swelled in my throat.

I followed them to the swing, hoisted her up, then stepped back, letting Rocky take charge.

“Hold on tight,” he ordered, gearing up for the first push.

And when she gasped at the first rise, and smiled on the drop, that lump popped like a bubble and came out a choked laugh.

Fucking hell, why were my eyes watering?

God damn allergies.

# # #

“That’s my grandson,” Lettie crooned. “That boy makes friends with everybody.” She put her hand on my back, rubbing small circles. “She’s smiling. Do you see that?”

I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest to keep from hugging the petite doctor. I wasn’t a hugger, but damn how I wanted to squeeze somebody.

Rocky pushed for a good ten minutes, then halted the swing and helped Little One down. He held her hand and she didn’t pull away.

“Dane! Dane! Can I show her the beach?”

“Yeah.”

“Just don’t go too close to the water, Rockster,” Lettie shouted. “We don’t know if she can swim.”

“Okay!” he bellowed, skipping toward the sand.

We followed, giving the kids their space, my gut a rumbling mess.

Tito and Tango watched from the top floor of the garage, both assuming the same stance, arms crossed, chests puffed. I almost laughed, until I realized they mimicked my pose.

The kids ran up and down the length of the beach, finding rocks, and sticks, sitting for a few minutes to draw in the sand, then getting up to run again.

Lettie excused herself. When the kids finally settled in the shade of a willow tree, I joined them, parking my ass a few feet away.

Rocky rambled on about school and football. Little One listened, nodding her head as if in agreement, never tearing her gaze from Rocky’s enormous green eyes.

I felt like an intruder, but damn I wasn’t ready to let her out of my sight, or out of reach.

Rocky pushed to his feet, then helped Little One up. Protective. Like his father. Like his uncles. Like me.

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