vehicle. "You can just call me Little Miss Running Late."
Throwing the truck into reverse, I backed away in a quick, wide arc so that I was pointing in the opposite direction. Taking one last look at the dashboard clock, I put it into drive and hauled my ass home.
**********************
I'd be lying if I said I didn't give more than a passing thought to the driver the rest of that week. I thought about him the whole time I was fixing daddy lunch that afternoon. Thought about him the rest of my shift, too, my orders getting all mixed up so that I earned a few fresh scowls from Roy. And I don't even want to admit how much I thought about him halfway through the rest of the week when I managed a soak in the tub instead of taking a shower, Patsy Cline moaning on the CD player loud enough to cover my own soft mewls.
I'm sure by the time a few more weeks had passed I would have worked the stranger out of my system, but that wasn't meant to be. Saturday rolled around, the steakhouse all but empty following the afternoon rush when most of Tupperville headed for bigger towns like Midland to do some shopping. With two hours to go on my shift, Roy nudged my side and glanced over at station seven.
"Just gave you a live one, Ginny."
Live one was Roy-speak for a customer who looked like a good tipper. With daddy injured on the job and his employer fighting him every inch of the way on the worker's comp claim, Roy had been trying to feed me as many live ones as he could when he wasn't hassling me about my lunch breaks. I gave him my best smile and headed to the corner and station seven.
I saw right away why Roy thought the man would be a good tipper -- the watch. It was as unmistakably expensive as the hand that wore it was familiar.
My driver was sitting at station seven.
I shook my head. He wasn't my driver -- I mean, it was the owner of the Mustang, but the man wasn't mine. Rich and gorgeous, he never would be. Some Tupperville girl might catch his eye like that for a night or two, but not me.
Tamping down a sigh, I stopped alongside the table and forced the same smile to my lips that I give every customer at Roy's Steakhouse. "Something to drink first?"
With my red hair, pale skin, multitude of freckles and too generous curves, I am recognizable in a way other girls aren't. But most men's attention skips right by, their gaze jumping fast enough to break the sound barrier. So I didn't expect my driver to look at me long enough to recognize me as the plump country girl who had rescued his dumb ass earlier that week.
He looked up. He had frosted blue eyes with a thick gray ring around the irises that glittered at me as a grin slowly spread across his face. "Miss Running Late."
He sucked his bottom lip in, stopping the smile until the lip emerged wet and flushing. I blinked, gripped my pen tighter and stared at my order sheet. No way would I get his order right if I had to look at that face, especially those eyes, again. "Yeah. Something to drink?"
That grunting, purring noise wrapped around my spine like a fist trying to tug me closer. He spread his hands out on the table, not quite touching the surface as he absently swept them side to side and finally ordered his drink. "A sweet tea."
"Right." I started to pivot, ready to flee. He caught my elbow just like he had that day on the side of the road, his grip almost proprietary.
Fudgesicles!
His touch felt exactly like I remembered it, exactly how I had imagined it over and over the last few days as I ran my hands over my body in the bath or in bed.
"Not so fast, Miss Running Late. I need your advice on the meal."
He hadn't even opened the damn menu yet, so how the hell did he know what help he needed!
"Fine." Flushing, I tapped the metal tip of my pen against the order sheet. "If you're looking for a light meal--"
"No, full…robust."
I sucked a little air between my teeth as his answer snaked its way around my hips. I obviously hadn't heard him talk enough to know if
Throwing the truck into reverse, I backed away in a quick, wide arc so that I was pointing in the opposite direction. Taking one last look at the dashboard clock, I put it into drive and hauled my ass home.
**********************
I'd be lying if I said I didn't give more than a passing thought to the driver the rest of that week. I thought about him the whole time I was fixing daddy lunch that afternoon. Thought about him the rest of my shift, too, my orders getting all mixed up so that I earned a few fresh scowls from Roy. And I don't even want to admit how much I thought about him halfway through the rest of the week when I managed a soak in the tub instead of taking a shower, Patsy Cline moaning on the CD player loud enough to cover my own soft mewls.
I'm sure by the time a few more weeks had passed I would have worked the stranger out of my system, but that wasn't meant to be. Saturday rolled around, the steakhouse all but empty following the afternoon rush when most of Tupperville headed for bigger towns like Midland to do some shopping. With two hours to go on my shift, Roy nudged my side and glanced over at station seven.
"Just gave you a live one, Ginny."
Live one was Roy-speak for a customer who looked like a good tipper. With daddy injured on the job and his employer fighting him every inch of the way on the worker's comp claim, Roy had been trying to feed me as many live ones as he could when he wasn't hassling me about my lunch breaks. I gave him my best smile and headed to the corner and station seven.
I saw right away why Roy thought the man would be a good tipper -- the watch. It was as unmistakably expensive as the hand that wore it was familiar.
My driver was sitting at station seven.
I shook my head. He wasn't my driver -- I mean, it was the owner of the Mustang, but the man wasn't mine. Rich and gorgeous, he never would be. Some Tupperville girl might catch his eye like that for a night or two, but not me.
Tamping down a sigh, I stopped alongside the table and forced the same smile to my lips that I give every customer at Roy's Steakhouse. "Something to drink first?"
With my red hair, pale skin, multitude of freckles and too generous curves, I am recognizable in a way other girls aren't. But most men's attention skips right by, their gaze jumping fast enough to break the sound barrier. So I didn't expect my driver to look at me long enough to recognize me as the plump country girl who had rescued his dumb ass earlier that week.
He looked up. He had frosted blue eyes with a thick gray ring around the irises that glittered at me as a grin slowly spread across his face. "Miss Running Late."
He sucked his bottom lip in, stopping the smile until the lip emerged wet and flushing. I blinked, gripped my pen tighter and stared at my order sheet. No way would I get his order right if I had to look at that face, especially those eyes, again. "Yeah. Something to drink?"
That grunting, purring noise wrapped around my spine like a fist trying to tug me closer. He spread his hands out on the table, not quite touching the surface as he absently swept them side to side and finally ordered his drink. "A sweet tea."
"Right." I started to pivot, ready to flee. He caught my elbow just like he had that day on the side of the road, his grip almost proprietary.
Fudgesicles!
His touch felt exactly like I remembered it, exactly how I had imagined it over and over the last few days as I ran my hands over my body in the bath or in bed.
"Not so fast, Miss Running Late. I need your advice on the meal."
He hadn't even opened the damn menu yet, so how the hell did he know what help he needed!
"Fine." Flushing, I tapped the metal tip of my pen against the order sheet. "If you're looking for a light meal--"
"No, full…robust."
I sucked a little air between my teeth as his answer snaked its way around my hips. I obviously hadn't heard him talk enough to know if
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