Page 28 of Truck Stop Tempest

I shook my head no.

Tito’s face cracked into a wide smile. “Well, then. You’re in for a treat.”

Max returned, once again, with two plates, each containing two fried eggs and lemon wedges.

“Did you call ahead our orders?” I asked.

Tito shook his head. “No. No menus here. Chef serves whatever he’s in the mood to cook, and people eat it. They don’t like that setup, they don’t come.”

I cut into the potato concoction and lifted it to my lips. Tito watched, halting his own bite midair.

I shivered at the explosion of flavor. Salty, buttery, potato heaven. Hint of garlic, but not overpowering. The texture was dense and comforting, like a promise that you’d never feel the pain of an empty stomach again.

“Good, yeah?” he asked, face beaming with anticipation.

I didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, I took another bite. Then another. I sipped my strong coffee in-between chews, then dug into the eggs, mimicking Tito by dipping my hunk of bread into the yolks.

I sopped the remaining oil and flavor-filled crumbles off my plate with the butt of the bread, then popped it between my lips. “You eat this good all the time?”

Tito laid his fork down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The scrutiny in his gaze triggered alarm bells.

“You eat that fast all the time?” he asked, voice gruff, his mood shifting into a dark zone.

I looked at my plate. “No.”

Had I made a fool of myself? No doubt I’d suffer for my binge. I sure as heck wouldn’t regret it, though.

“Look at me,” Tito ordered. Or maybe it wasn’t an order. Maybe his deep voice or the dark inflection that marinated his words made every syllable sound like a command.

On impulse, I obeyed, raising my eyes in a slow drag to meet his.

Those eyes. Dark and stormy. An exotic clash of browns and greens warring over prime real estate.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“What?” I feigned interest in my napkin.

A heavy hand covered mine. “Look at me.”

Again, I did as ordered.

“Whenever you feel uncomfortable or challenged, you look down.”

With great will, I held his gaze. “I. Um. Sorry. Habit. It’s how I was raised. Eyes down. Don’t argue. Obey your Elders.”

“Elders?” He laughed. “How old do you think I am?”

“No. I mean, Elders, as in, the men who are leaders—” I clamped my lips shut before spilling my ugly truth. “I mean, yeah, you know, like people older and wiser. Parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, you get the picture.”

Not missing a beat, he argued, “You started to say men who were leaders? Leaders of what?”

“Leaders in the church. The um, the church I grew up in.” I’d said too much already, but I couldn’t stop rambling. “We were punished if we disobeyed or showed any disrespect. Um. But. I don’t belong to that church anymore. I don’t agree with their beliefs. That’s why I moved to Whisper Springs. To get away.”

Tito’s face hardened, eyes narrowed. The weight of his scrutiny was suffocating. “Punished how?”

I wanted to flee. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Stone cold silence. My breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. After agonizing seconds, his glassy eyes cleared.