Page 13 of Just a Friend for the Lion
“Reheats and register,” I say, tying my apron tighter. “You’ve got both stations till close. Keep it tight, Jeremy. We’re already loaded with Friday pre-orders.”
“You got it, boss.” He gives me a salute with the pizza cutter, and I try not to imagine the headlineLocal Pizzeria Burned Down by Overconfident Teen with Knife Fetish.
Whatever.
He’s decent, if a little cocky with the pizza rocker—a pizza cutting tool with a handle on the top and giant, curved blade across the bottom.
But now that he’s clocked in, I can finally escape the front counter.
Thank the cheese gods.
The Wilton family’s standing order just pinged, and I head to the kitchen to get started on the dinner rush.
Half a tray of pasta, half a tray of chicken cutlets, half a tray of salad. Two pepperoni pies. A caramel apple dessert pizza. Every Friday. Like clockwork.
Mrs. Wilton says it gives her a break from cooking. I get that. Life’s hard. And if I can make dinner easier for a family of nine, that’s something.
Feels good, you know?
It’s weird, but knowing my food helps people—it’s personal.
Like I’m feeding their memories.
And okay, yes, that does make me sound like an overly sentimental cannoli, but sue me.
It’s how I was raised.
Feed the body, feed the soul.
And if you can make ‘em cry happy tears with a perfectly toasted garlic knot? You’ve done your job.
I’ve just started the second tray of pasta when ithits me again—that weird flutter in my stomach from earlier.
My mind goes right to that guy.
The one with the golden eyes and that cocky“I’m-not-looking-for-anything-serious-but-I’ll-ruin-your-life-in-the-best-way”kind of strut.
Excepthe tripped.
Like, full-on, dumbass trip over his own boots just trying to walk in a straight line.
And for me? That’s just too cute. Like,be still, my heartcute.
Six-foot-something of pure, manly swagger, wearing jeans like a second skin and a black T-shirt that had zero business doing that to his chest.
I mean, come on. I’m trying to run a business here, not a thirst trap.
But the eyes.
It was the eyes that did me in.
Warm gold. Curious. A little wary. Like he wasn’t used to feeling the way he was feeling when he looked at me.
Which is ridiculous, of course.
I mean, Uncle Uzzi said he was just an old friend of his. Some guy starting a limo service nearby.
Okay, I know that means he’s not quitehuman—and with his build, I can totally see that—but so what?
