Page 27 of Truck Stop Tempest
“Hi.” The greeting left my lips, breathy and slow.
A rare, unreserved smile spread across his face.
A thousand bombs exploded in my chest. Those deep dimples branding a permanent tattoo on my temporal lobe.
“Ready?” He opened the door, gaze dropping to my boots, lingering.
I should’ve taken time to wipe the mud off my shoes. “Am I dressed okay? You didn’t say what we were doing today.”
He blinked, then shook his head as if dispelling a thought. “You’re dressed fine. Perfect.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Beautiful.”
I settled into the car seat and hooked my belt. When he sat next to me, a rush of cologne filled my senses, warming me deeper than the heat blowing through the vents.
Tito inhaled, then exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. “Get home okay last night?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to pick you up. Had a dinner I couldn’t back out of.”
“No need to apologize. It’s not your responsibility to drive me home.”
“I like driving you home,” he mumbled, turning his attention to pull away from the curb.
The deep rumble of the engine made my insides tingle.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.” I’d burned off the measly banana calories halfway through my hike.
“Good. I know a great place in Hollow Falls. They make the best Spanish tortilla.”
I’d never heard of a Spanish tortilla, but my mouth watered regardless. Food was food. Anything would be better than canned cheeses and Chicken of the Sea.
Hollow Falls was the neighboring town west of Whisper Springs. The two cities, once separated by miles of farmer’s fields, were now connected by new housing developments, car dealerships, and mini-malls. The half-hour drive passed in a blur of speeding cars and lighthearted conversation.
Tito pulled into a parking lot hidden behind a large brick building that housed the restaurant, a tattoo parlor, and an antique store.
The sign above the door read, La Caverna.
When we entered, Tito grabbed my hand and led me to the corner of the dining room. The dark-stained wood tables were held together with wrought iron rivets and decorated with mason jar candles.
As soon as we sat, the waiter brought a wood cutting board with a loaf of rustic bread. “Morning, Tito.” He wore a smile that boasted a crooked tooth and infectious joy.
“Morning, Max.” Tito leaned back into his chair. “How’s the hip?”
Max winced. “Little stiff. Mother Nature is brewing something nasty today.” He shot me a wink, then headed back toward the kitchen.
My stomach growled, and I hoped the Spanish guitar playing over the speakers was loud enough to mask the embarrassing rumble.
“How’d you find this place?” I asked, admiring the brick walls and ambiance.
Foregoing the cutting knife, Tito pulled a hunk of bread off the loaf. “I come here with my uncle. He’s friends with the chef.” He set the bread on my plate, then ripped off a hunk for himself, took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Took another.
So, I did the same. I’d never been served bread without the neat little slabs of butter. I’d never tasted bread so full of flavor that it didn’t need butter. It didn’t take long to realize there were no menus on the table. It also didn’t take long for Max to return with small cups of dark coffee. Shortly after, he returned with another cutting board. On the board sat something that resembled a thick pancake, but smelled of garlic, fried potatoes, and the promise of a happy, happy stomach.
“What is this?” I asked, embarrassed by my lack of culture.
“Spanish tortilla.” Tito winked, cutting a wedge from the pie. “Potatoes, eggs, garlic, onion, and a shit ton of love.” He set the slice on my plate, then filled his own. “Never had it?”