Page 25 of Stacked
“Not since high school, when it was a—”
“German bakery,” we said in unison.
She smiled and glanced at the dusty floor. Anya had a nice smile; one that made her eyes dance and soften the skin around them. “Had great bagels.”
“With brown sugar butter,” I replied. “The only way to fly.”
Her gaze returned to me. “Going to put bagels on the menu?”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“You’re going to serve food at the bar, right?”
Putting down my paint swatches, I said, “Yeah, I think so.”
“Good.” Her expression slackened as if she was wrestling with something in her mind. “I shouldn’t have stopped here. This was a bad idea.”
“Why?” I walked forward.
“I’m just... I’m sorry.” She turned halfway, as if she wanted to see herself out. “I was curious and...and I probably shouldn’t have barged in here like this.”
“I don’t think you barged in.”
“No, I did.” Anya moved a few steps backward, the heels of her flat gold sandals clacking against the freshly laid Positano tile. “Anyway, it looks great. You should be proud of all the work you’re putting into this. It’s fantastic.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
“I should.”
“Why?” I was still confused, still at a loss. Meeting her for drinks a few weeks earlier had been so nice, so refreshing. Comfortable, even. It hadn’t been a date, hadn’t been something formal, but I enjoyed it and thought she did too. Couldn’t we at least be friendly? That wouldn’t hurt, would it?
“Listen,” I tried. “I ordered pizza about a half hour ago, and it should be here soon. Want to stay and eat some?”
“I don’t—”
“It’s a meat lover’s one from Papa’s Pizza. You know you can’t resist that. Nobody around here can.”
Anya hesitated. “I do love that pizza.”
I gave her my widest smile. “Good, since I ordered plenty. I’d love for you to join me and have some.”
“I feel like you’re always trying to get me to eat with you.”
I shrugged. “I like food.” We stared at each other for a beat, and when she didn’t move, I said, “Well, then, it’s settled.”
“Settled?”
I gestured to the door. “The delivery guy just showed up.”
Anya turned in time to see a silver sedan with an askew “Papa’s Pizza” sign parked in the spot outside the front door. The driver hopped out and brought a large pizza box to the door. Even though I prepaid for the meal online, I yanked a few more dollars from my wallet, gave him the extra tip, and thanked him for being speedy on the delivery.
When I regarded Anya again, I balanced the box on the palm of my hand. “You’re not going to turn me down now, are you?”
“No way.”
“Good. Then we can eat at the bar, since it’s clean enough.”
The setup was simple. A large pizza piled with sausage, pepperoni, prosciutto, ground beef, bacon, and ham between us, two paper plates I dug up out of the box of provisions I brought in for the workers, a few paper towels to use as napkins, and two bottles of San Pellegrino from the stash of drinks in the cooler next to the pile of painting supplies. Not much, but enough.
