Page 89 of Truck Stop Tempest

“You lay down, too. Let me hold you.”

Sweet hell, that blush.

“That was the plan.”

“Okay, then.” I toed off my shoes. “You should’ve said that in the first place.”

Tuuli kicked off her Adidas, removed her sweatshirt, pulled back the blankets, and waited for me to settle between the sheets. Then, she snuggled close, wrapped her arms around me, and with those delicate fingers, started a slow stroke across my back. I nestled my head against her chest, her heartbeat a soothing rhythm, a lullaby. Her touch was entrancing. Her scent, intoxicating.

As I fought my weary lids, I curled an arm around her waist, hugging tight, and wondered if that was the closest I would ever get to Heaven.

When I opened my eyes, my angel was gone.

2:47.

I’d slept over eight hours. Not one goddamn dream.

“You day-dreaming again, Toodaloo?” For the third time since my shift had started, Charlie rapped his knuckles on my head, shocking me out of my trance.

“Jeez. Sorry. My head is all over the place today.” I shook the funky vibe away and snatched the stack of folded towels out of Charlie’s hand.

Somehow, I had managed to make it through seven-and-a-half hours of a packed house without dropping any dishes or spilling any coffee. Every time the cowbell rattled, my heart jumped into my throat. Every time I looked to see who had entered and it wasn’t Tito, my chest deflated.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Tango’s thick, raspy voice shook me out of another reverie.

“Where’d you come from?” I squeaked.

He hooked an arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the end of the hall, smiling down at me with a crooked grin and those exotic, hypnotizing eyes. Seriously, those green babies should come with a warning: Weapon of Mass Destruction.

“I do. I miss him more than I want to,” I confessed.

“He misses you, too.”

Tango Rossi was one of those rare beauties, so perfect that you wanted to stare, but much like looking at the sun, if you ogled too long, you would go blind. So, with great effort, I held his gaze. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Trying to be a strong independent woman and all that. But…gah…I don’t feel right. Nothing feels right.”

Tango threw his head back and mumbled something to the ceiling, in Spanish I think, before grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “That’s exactly what he said.”

“Why is this so hard?”

“Because nothing worth fighting for is easy.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, head cocked. “Want my advice?”

“Sure.” I hugged the towels to my chest.

“Stick to your guns. Don’t give in. But don’t give up, either. He’ll come around.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re a woman worth fighting for.” He shot me a dreamy-eyed wink, pushed off the wall, and sauntered away, leaving his words behind to seep through my skin, my blood, my soul.

Because you’re a woman worth fighting for.

He said woman. Not girl. Not brat. Not bitch. Woman.

I was worth fighting for. I had to believe that truth, for nobody else but me.

I headed back to the dining room with a bouncier spring in my step. A new customer was seated at one of my tables. A little on the short side, but thick on bulk. Messy black hair. Colorful ink covering his arms.

“Hi, there.” I smiled at the guy. “What can I get for you?”

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