Page 8 of Broken Rivalry

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. University athletes. Still as lost in their own world as ever.

“And what pizzas do you have available for individual slices?”

I purse my lips, my fingers drumming impatiently on the counter as I fight the urge to snap at him. That’s what I get for serving a customer so close to the end of my shift. We’re eight minutes in and nowhere nearer to his choosing.

We’re far away enough from campus for Silverbrook student encounters to be rare, and based on the painful one I’m in the middle of, I’m quite happy that is the case.

I shake my head, exasperation seeping into my voice. “Margherita, pepperoni, and tuna. We’ve been over this three times already.”

He frowns. “Didn’t you say double cheese before?”

For a fleeting moment, the image of shoving his face into a pizza slice dances in my mind, worth the risk of being fired. “There was, five minutes ago, but my coworker keeps on serving customers who actually want something.” Customer or not, I am done with this.

I reach behind me and untie my apron. “Listen, you clearly don’t want anything, and my shift is now over. I’ll leave you to it, and if you need anything, Greg here will—”

“No, it’s okay, give me two slices of anything and a can of Diet Pepsi. I’ll be waiting there.” He points at the table far at the back. “Keep the change,” he adds quickly, and I’m about to say that we don’t do table service during the day, but the fifty-dollar bill stops me.

My eyebrows knit together as I ask, “You want me to keep the change on that?”

He hesitates, his eyes avoiding mine. “Yeah, just bring me the pizza,” he mumbles, his voice low and uncertain.

As I stare at the fifty-dollar bill, a mix of emotions swirls within me. The money is a much-needed relief, but the unease about his intentions casts a long shadow over the generous tip. I narrow my eyes, not naive enough to think his amazing tip was for my stellar customer service skills, but I am also desperate enough to want these forty dollars, knowing that half could go in my food jar at the apartment and the other twenty would help fill the cupboard at home.

I look at Greg, and he shrugs. “See what he wants and call if you need me.”

With a heavy sigh, I balance two random pieces of pizza on a plate, the aroma teasing my senses. I grab a cold can of Diet Pepsi, the chill seeping into my palm. Shedding my apron, I approach his secluded table, my steps slow and hesitant.

He gives a casual nod, his hand sweeping away his messy hair as his foot nudges the chair opposite him, sending it screeching backward on the tiled floor. “Why don’t you sit?” His voice carries a hint of eagerness masked by a laid-back tone.

I stand rooted, the chair’s sudden movement echoing in the dim pizzeria. Here we go, I think, my heart sinking. My gaze flicks to the empty chair, its cold metal frame uninviting. I am not completely conceited, but clarity rings in my mind about what I desire and what I vehemently avoid. And a boyfriend, a flirt, or whatever this guy is insinuating definitely does not make the list.

“Listen—”

“Jeff.”

My feet edge backward, creating distance between us. My gaze stays fixed on his, searching for his next move. “Listen, Jeff. Whatever you’re offering, I’m not interested, so thanks for the tip, but no thanks.” I turn around to leave, my steps brisk as I head back to the counter.

“I’m not looking to date you,” he adds, stopping me in my tracks.

I eye him from where I stand, my raised eyebrow a silent prompt for him to go on.

“It’s about sociology.”

Ah, that’s the class I’m sharing with him. “What about sociology?” I take a few steps back toward his table.

He looks at the chair across from him, jerking his chin toward it. “Sit, please. I don’t think I want this conversation to be public.”

The whole hush vibe and visible discomfort are enough for me to take the bait and sit down. “I don’t have long,” I warn him, and it’s the truth. I have to go home, shower, change, and then hope to catch Eva in time for a lift to my mom’s, where I’ll spend the evening looking after my brothers.

He nods. “I see you’re already the professor’s favorite in class. Mrs. Mitchell is a hard-ass, but she’s always pleased with your answers.”

“Okay…” I trail off, confused. “It’s only been two weeks.”

“I’m aware, but…” He rubs his neck before sighing again.

“To the point, please!” I snap. He had used the last of my patience when he played whatever game he was playing at the counter.

He slides a paper across the table, his words brisk. “Complete my assignment. The details are here.”

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