“Sir? Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Gemma’s feet hurt. She was on hour five of her eight-hour shift, and the diner had been hopping since the moment she got there. She was guessing it wasn’t the chicken-fried steak special they were running. Most likely just her usually shitty luck.

The older gentlemen shook his head, and Gemma gave him his bill to pay at the front. This meant she’d be making a quick fly-by once he stood up, to clean the table and look for the all-important tip.

Gemma could suck up to the grumpiest drivers. She would smile, listen to them tell her about traffic and the weather. Anything to get them to leave her a better tip. They spent a lot of time alone, so a woman giving them a little attention often went a long way. It also helped that she was the youngest waitress by far. The next youngest was in her forties.

She kept a side eye on when the man got up. She swung by and started picking up the plates. He’d left her twenty-five percent. That was awesome. With a little smile, she tucked the money in the pocket of her apron and jostled the plates to try and get all the dirties to the kitchen in one trip. Her polyester uniform itched, and she was always worried about flashing someone. Her ample ass stretched the fabric to its absolute limits.

She wasn’t unaware that, to a lonely trucker, her uniform was something to watch. She didn’t fault them that. Men were visual creatures, she’d found; always distracted by the nearest shiny object.

Dumping the dishes in the back, she turned to see someone new in her section. She could only see the back of the head, but it was shockingly blond. There was no way it was him; her mind was jumping to conclusions.

Taking a breath, she smoothed her apron and patted her hair. Walking up to the table, she started talking before she got there. “What can I get you?”

As she turned to face him, she saw her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. It was him, Eddie Rochon.

“Hello, Gemma,” he said smoothly. His eyes scanned over her, lingering on her hips a little too long.

“Dr. Rochon,” she said, quietly.

“Call me Eddie – or Edison – whichever you like,” he replied.

“Edison?” she asked, surprised his name wasn’t Edward.

“Mom was…well, let’s just say she had a lot of plans for me. She figured naming me after great minds would give me a step up in the world,” he said, smiling.

Gemma liked that smile. It was a good one, kind and friendly.

“Your middle name is Einstein?” she joked.

“No. Tesla,” he said.

Gemma wasn’t familiar with that name. She gave a look that showed him she was confused.

“Tesla was a man that invented the Tesla coil. You ever stick your hand on one of those little globes that made your hair stand on end? Like that, but bigger,” he remarked. “Not many people know that name. So sticking me with it was kind of mean.”

Not knowing how tough he had had it being labeled with a goofy name, she was pretty sure he still had enough advantages in school to make up for it.

“So, what can I get for you?” She tried again. Why was Dr. Rochon in the truck stop diner the day after she ran into him? This was a serious case of not bad luck, it was catastrophically bad luck.

“The special sounds good. How about that and a soda?” he said, giving her a wink.

“Sure you can handle that? This is carpet in here, it’s not as easy to clean up,” she warned him. She was glad that he had a sense of humor about last night.

“I’ll do my best. If it makes you feel better, you can give me one of those kiddy cups with the lids,” he suggested.

“Coming right up,” she said, writing on his ticket.

“Hey, do you have a break soon?” he asked.

“Uh, my last break is in thirty minutes.” Again with the information dump.

“Consider spending it with me? I’ll even order two pieces of pie, so you’ll feel bad for me sitting alone with two desserts.”

“I wouldn’t feel bad for you, I’d just think you were greedy,” she admitted.

His tone turned serious, and his voice dropped. “Oh, I’m greedy, Gemma. I usually get what I want, too.”

“Uh, okay. I’ll put your order in,” she said, moving away from him.

When she got to the computer, she quickly typed in the order, then walked into the kitchen without turning to look back at him.

Once she was safely out of view, she leaned against the wall. “Why me?”

“Why you what, honey?” Kathleen, asked. She was the quintessential truck stop diner waitress. Beehive hairdo, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and glasses on a chain around her neck; it looked like she stepped straight out of a seventies sitcom.

“Cute guy, my section,” Gemma returned.

“And this is a problem?”

“Well yes, I met him last night. It was an embarrassing situation,” Gemma added. She didn’t even mention Dash’s encounter with Eddie. The only person at the diner who knew about him was her boss. Again, she was normally much better at keeping secrets.

“So, go talk him up. Give that tush of yours a little shake. Maybe you’ll get a big tip out of it,” Shirley suggested.

“Oh, that would be classy,” Gemma snorted.

“Honey, we sling hash for a living. Ain’t nuthin’ classy about what we do,” she said wisely.

“I know, but he’s cute and smart, funny too. I feel like a spastic poodle around him,” Gemma said.

“Well, poodles are cute, don’t think I’ve ever seen an ugly one. Head out there, smile, keep your fingers out of the gravy, and see what happens,” Kathleen suggested.