I'm almost enjoying talking to him. He's still cocky and talking to me like I'm a child, which is not the way to get into my pants, but it turns out he's got a sense of humor and healthy appreciation for sarcasm-- which is.

He also has coffee. Which is one of the staples of my existence so if worse comes to absolute worst, I'd bang him just for the caffeine.

A number of filthy thoughts scramble through my mind in the moment of silence that passes between us. I clear my throat and make a hasty spin to refill my cup. I don't blush easily, but I can feel my cheeks heating under the casual gaze he's got fixed on me.

I don't need him thinking he's got an advantage.

Then again...It's not like I'm talking about dating him. Nothing wrong with having a little fun with a good looking dude before riding off into the sunset, right?

"So how long is it going to take?" I lean back against the counter with my newly refilled coffee cup and quirk an eyebrow over the rim as I take a sip.

His feet drop to the ground and he slides the wheeled chair he's sitting on across the tiny space behind his counter. He acts like I caught him off guard and I wonder where his mind wandered off to in the 30 seconds it took for me to get more coffee.

"How long will what take?" He asks.

"Gas." I nod my head at the pump beyond the window, "How long till you're back in business?"

He turns and looks outside like he forgot what I'm talking about. "Oh, yeah. I don't know," he says as he turns back to me.

And just like that, I'm not feeling so interested again.

Damn this man.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He shrugs, "I mean my regular delivery isn't scheduled for another couple weeks. I have an order in, but so does every other station on this highway-- we got hit hard by the traffic for the music festival up north a few days ago. A lot of the smaller stations are dry. The tanker will get here when it gets here. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few days from now."

"A few days?" I try not to spit coffee all over the place as I choke on my surprise.

I was thinking like later today, tomorrow morning, tops.

"At least," he says, "could be two weeks when the regular delivery is scheduled."

"I need to get back on the road," I tell my coffee, "I can't wait two weeks."

"Well, if you have someone you can call, I'll let you use the phone," he gestures toward the old school, corded, landline phone on the counter next to the cash register.

It takes me a minute to figure out why I would bother calling anyone. I mean, I could call work and let them know I might not be back next week. I could call my neighbor and tell her to check up on my apartment. Then I realize he's talking about having someone come pick me up.

"Maybe your husband could come get you?" He asks rather pointedly. It doesn't sound like he's fishing for info, it sounds condescending, like I need a man to come rescue me.

There's that misogynist attitude I met earlier this morning.

"I don't have a husband," I tell him, trying to make it clear that that's on purpose.

"Boyfriend then." He says it like it's a foregone conclusion.

"Nope." This guy is not making points.

"Dad."

The bastard isn't even looking at me anymore, he's turned his back toward me and is looking through paperwork, rattling off the typical list of usual male suspects that a woman calls when she needs to be bailed out.

This woman doesn't need to be bailed out. This woman just spent 3 weeks touring 7 western states on a motorcycle that weighs less that 300 pounds. This woman stopped relying on men to help her out 2 years ago when her last boyfriend--

"You know what? Never mind." I spit out, "I'm not a fucking princess, I don't need to be rescued, thank you."

He turns and looks back at me. "Suit yourself," he tells me with a shrug, "but if you're planning on camping out in the meantime, set your tent up over on the grass, would ya?"

I guess we're back to square one. I take all my dirty thoughts back. The guy's an asshole. I don't care how good looking he is.

As I push my ass off the edge of the counter I've been leaning on, aimed for the door, I hear him clear his throat.

"That's gonna be a buck fifty," he says with a grin that is every bit as sexy as it is obnoxious. He nods toward the Styrofoam cup in my hand.

"Start a tab," I tell him tersely, "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

I don't wait for his answer, I just push the door open and head toward my bike.

Ninja's right on my heels, walking with quick, stiff-legged strides that makes it look like she's every bit as over that man as I am.

"Looks like I'm moving in," I tell her as I push the bike off the concrete to a grassy spot on the side of the property.

The little ink spot wags her tail and follows me enthusiastically.

At least the dog is friendly.