A Pizza My Heart Read online

  A Pizza My Heart

  Teagan Hunter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Teagan Hunter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages for review purposes only.

  Editing by Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading by Deaton Author Services & Judy's Proofreading

  Photography by Samantha Weaver Photography

  Models: Mike Marlett & Dani Lynn

  Makeup by: Niki May Makeup Artistry

  Formatting by AB Formatting

  Contents

  Slice One

  Slice Two

  Slice Three

  Slice Four

  Slice Five

  Slice Six

  Slice Seven

  Slice Eight

  Slice Nine

  Slice Ten

  Slice Eleven

  Slice Twelve

  Slice Thirteen

  Slice Fourteen

  Slice Fifteen

  Slice Sixteen

  Slice Seventeen

  Slice Eighteen

  Slice Nineteen

  Slice Twenty

  A Slice of the Future

  Thank You

  I Knead You Tonight Preview

  Acknowledgments

  Other Titles by Teagan Hunter:

  About the Author

  To the real-life Mike Marlett.

  Thank you for being so cool with me taking your story, twisting it up a bit, and writing you your own HEA. I hope you get one someday soon. You deserve it, Squid.

  Slice One

  Wren

  “Wren! Couple at table five. You want it?”

  I bite back a groan. “Do I have a choice?”

  Beth laughs sardonically, her midnight curls bouncing off her shoulders as she shakes her head at me. “I can’t believe you wasted time even asking. Chop-chop!”

  Without another word, she breezes back inside like she didn’t just interrupt the last five minutes of my break.

  In all fairness, I should be used to it. It happens every time. You’d think being the daughter of the owner would have its perks—like extended breaks—but nope.

  “Customers always come first, Wren. Always.”

  “Even before family?”

  “Especially before family. I see enough of you shits at home every night.”

  Ah, dear old Dad. Such a gem.

  Pushing off the old brick wall, I tug the lone earbud from my ear and wrap the set around my phone before tucking it into my pocket.

  I blow out an exasperated breath, square my shoulders, and march inside to meet my doom.

  And by meet my doom, I mean wait tables.

  Which is basically the same thing.

  Why my dad wants me—the queen of inserting her foot into her mouth—working at his restaurant and interacting with actual paying customers is beyond me.

  I’m horrible with people. My filter is out of commission half the time, and to top it all off, I can’t balance anything on a tray to save my life.

  Yeah, Dad, me working here is a great idea.

  Snatching my apron off the hook, I work to tie it around my waist as I bob and weave past the other waitstaff, making my way to the waitress station to clock back in from my truncated break.

  “You have a hottie out there. Jealous I didn’t get here first.”

  I grin over at my best friend, who’s clocking herself in for her shift. “You have a boyfriend, Drew.”

  “So? It’s like being on a diet—I can appreciate what’s on the menu without actually ordering it.” She winks. “Besides, I see Chadwick check out other girls all the time. Figured I could do the same.”

  “It’s disrespectful for him to do that to you,” I point out for what feels like the millionth time. They haven’t been dating for long, but I already don’t like this new boyfriend of hers. “And who the hell names their kid Chadwick?” I add.

  “Villains.”

  I laugh. “That sounds about right.” I give myself a shake. “All right, let’s do this. I’m going out there.”

  “Good luck—and grab his number!”

  “He’s probably on a date!”

  “Most likely just a first date.”

  “A date is still a date.”

  “You’re so boring.”

  “You’re such a horndog.”

  “You, my friend”—she points a finger my way—“are not wrong.” Slapping my ass, she shoves me away. “Go get ’em, tiger!”

  I weave through the tables, fidgeting around in my pockets, trying to pull out my order pad and pen, not paying any attention to my surroundings.

  “Eyes up, silly girl!” My dad’s shoes cross into my line of sight and I glance up at him. “Don’t want you running into anyone holding a tray full of food.”

  “It was one time!” I argue.

  “This week, Wren.” My dad laughs. “One time this week.”

  “Semantics,” I mumble.

  “And our busboy landed in the hospital.”

  “Only because he’s a whiny little baby. Maybe he shouldn’t have caught himself on his wrist. This is really all his fault.”

  My dad runs an aging hand through his gray speckled hair, and it’s the first time in a while I’ve noticed how old he’s beginning to look. I guess that’s what happens when you’re approaching your mid-sixties; your age starts to show.

  My parents tried for years to have children and were in their late thirties when they gave up hope. Imagine their surprise two months later when they found out they were pregnant…with twins.

  We were miracle babies considering my mom had a geriatric pregnancy. It’s a wonder all three of us made it.

  “Wren,” my dad says on a sigh, “you’re gonna put me in the hospital next.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “If your mom were still here…”

  My heart squeezes at the thought.

  Parents prepare you for a lot in life: riding a bike, teaching you to read, dealing with boys, how to not spend all your money on Beanie Babies. They get the basics down and you’re ready for almost anything.

  Except brain aneurysms, or the utter heartbreak you endure when one strikes and takes them away from you.

  They don’t prepare you for that at all.

  “I know, I know. Eyes up in the dining room. I’ll do better, Dad.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, and this time I roll mine.

  “Sorry, I’ll do better, Simon.”

  He insists on me calling him Simon at work because it’s “more professional” or some crap like that.

  “Attagirl.” He chucks me under the chin. “Why I hired that one…” he mutters as he walks away, shaking his head.

  Now I remember why I’m still working here and doing hair full-time even though I’d much rather only be doing the latter—my father.

  I can’t leave him to run this place on his own. Sure, my brother Winston works here too, but Winston and reliable don’t exactly go hand in hand.

  I make my way over to table five, burying my face in my notepad and trying to avoid having to look at my customers for fear they’ll try to talk.

  Pass.

  It’s my MO. All the regulars here know it. I’m not big on chitchat or eye contact. I simply want to take your order, bring your
food, and send you on your merry way, stuffed and satisfied.

  “Hey there, Wren.”

  My shoulders relax at the familiar timbre, and I want to shake Drew for her purposeful misdirection.

  Hottie my ass.

  Two of my regulars, Randy and Blythe, stare up at me with goofy grins. If I had to guess, they have about five years on my dad, but they seem years younger. Randy’s loud and goofy and always getting himself into trouble, and Blythe colors her hair brighter than anyone I know—me included. She’s currently rocking bleach blonde locks with robin’s-egg blue tips, and I’m sure she’ll be back in my chair soon, trying something new.

  They might be old, but they don’t let that hold them back from anything, especially living.

  Unlike my father who is…well, he’s hanging on.

  My lips pull down at the thought of my dad. I know a lot of the aging he’s seen in the last few years is the heartache from losing my mother, which in turn makes my heart ache…and is another reason I can’t seem to walk away from this place.

  No matter how thin I’m stretching myself running my salon and working here five days a week, it doesn’t matter because he needs me.

  “How ya doing, kid?” Randy asks. “Hope you don’t mind we requested you as our waitress.”

  I paste on a dopey smile of my own. “You kidding me? My two favorite customers making a special request for my grumpy ass? I love it.”

  Randy chuckles at me, and Blythe shakes her head, smirking.

  “How’s it going with Ed?”

  I try not to grimace at Randy’s question, but he catches my reaction anyway.

  Ed Carlton is technically the owner of my salon. I’ve been renting his house for nearly two years now with the intention of buying the place, but when we started drawing up the contract for me to buy it, his kids stuck their noses in our business and now he’s waffling on our deal. Which means I’ve been living month-to-month not knowing whether I’m going to be able to keep my doors open.

  It’s soul-crushing knowing you could lose everything you’ve worked so hard for and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  Sure, I could just cut ties and move, but I’ve put so much work and effort into what I have that I can’t fathom leaving it behind.

  That and the fact that the house is literally my dream home. I’ve had my eye on it since I was a kid and felt like the stars had aligned when he put that For Rent sign up.

  “Ah, that good, huh?” Randy shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid.”

  “It is what it is. Things will happen how they should.” I give him a smile. “But enough about me. You crazy cats want your usual or are you feeling wild today?”

  “You know what?” He tosses his menu down dramatically. “Screw it! Let’s get wild!” he yells, pushing his tongue out and pumping devil horns in the air like he’s front row at a Metallica concert. “Hit us with your favorite slice.”

  “Just no onions,” Blythe adds, not batting an eye at Randy’s antics.

  They do this from time to time, get wild. And by wild I mean make a scene that the other patrons are immune to by now.

  Another reason they’re my favorite.

  “Deal. I’ll grab your drinks and put your order in. Be back soon.” I spin on my heel and start making my way back to place their order.

  “Don’t forget—”

  “Suicide soda, but extra cherry cola. I got you, Randy,” I call over my shoulder.

  “God, I love that girl,” I hear him say to Blythe.

  I can imagine her giving him a look because he quickly adds, “But no more than I love you, darlin’.”

  I laugh, shaking my head as I step back up to the waitress station.

  “Told ya he was a looker.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now or not.”

  “Are you kidding me? Randy is smokin’!”

  I punch in my pin number and begin entering the order. “He’s older than my dad, Drew.”

  “Who is also hot.”

  I spin toward her, mouth slackened. “You did not just tell me my father is hot.”

  “What?” She lifts a shoulder. “I have a thing for older dudes, and I would definitely do whatever Simon says.”

  “Ohmygosh, stop it.”

  “And that single dad thing he does?” She fans herself. “Sa-woon!”

  “Single dad thing? My mom died four years ago, Drew. Four! I’m a grown-ass adult. He’s not doing the ‘single dad thing’.”

  “Come on, just let me have this one! It’s my own special kink.”

  “Please do not ever say kink when speaking about my father.”

  “Well, Simon—”

  “No! Nope!” I cut her off, plugging my ears when she practically purrs his name. I truly can’t tell if she’s joking or not anymore, but I’m erring on the side of she’s not. “You are the worst best friend ever.”

  “Am I really though?”

  “Yes!” I finish up the order and head over to the drink station to get away from Drew and her creepy crush on my father.

  Unfortunately, she follows.

  “Come on, you can’t tell me Randy isn’t a looker.”

  “He’s not a ‘looker’. He’s old.”

  “He’s not that old. I bet he can still get down in the sack.”

  “I hate you so much right now,” I mutter, working my way down the fountain line, putting a little bit of each soda into the cup—extra cherry cola, of course.

  “You do not.”

  “How in the hell am I going to go out there and face him now? All I can think of is his old, wrinkly ball sack.”

  “That is one hundred percent on you.” She points my way. “No one said a thing about his balls.”

  “Another couple for ya, Wren. Table ten.”

  This time when Beth says it, I don’t hate her.

  In fact, I could kiss her for saving my ass.

  “Is it another hottie?” Drew asks her.

  “It is.”

  “Wait.” I hold my hand up. “Beth, are you implying that Randy is hot?”

  “Are you kidding me, kid? That man is smokin’!”

  I want to say I’m surprised, but it seems Beth is attracted to older men too. Though neither of them have said anything about it—I assume because they don’t want to make things weird with my mom being dead and all—I’ve seen the looks she and my dad exchange. There’s something going on there.

  “See!” My best friend claps her hands together and bounces on her heels, excited as hell to have some backup on this. “I told you so!”

  “You’re both deranged.”

  “And you both have tables. Get movin’, ladies!”

  Beth takes off in a hurry like she was never here, always on the go.

  “Darn.” I snap my fingers. “Just my luck. Gotta go work.”

  I snatch up the full glasses and hurry toward my customers before Drew can corner me again.

  “How convenient!” she calls to my retreating back. “We aren’t done talking about this, Wren!”

  Shaking my head, I stop in front of Randy and Blythe’s table, making sure not to make any eye contact.

  “What’s the spunky one going on about?” Randy asks.

  “Nothing worth repeating,” I insist, setting the glasses down in front of them. “I’ll be back with your slices in a jiffy.”

  “Jiffy. Jif. Peanut butter! Give me peanut butter with mine, baby doll!”

  “You are a horrid creature and should be ashamed of yourself.” Blythe scolds him for us both, and I’m thankful, because ew.

  I pull my pen and notepad from my apron, heading toward table ten.

  “Welcome in,” I say as I approach the couple, keeping my attention focused on the woman. Last thing I want is to stare at her date for a second too long and her accuse me of anything untoward. Learned that lesson my first week here. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke,” the woman says. She gives a flirty laugh whe
n she says this, and I scrunch my brows together, not getting the joke.

  “Okay…” I pretend to jot it down so I can avoid looking at the guy. “And for you?”

  “Your best IPA,” he answers.

  Yes, because I know exactly what you’re referring to…

  I flit my eyes to him for a moment, biting back my sarcastic response. He’s grinning up at me and there’s something familiar about him, but I brush it aside, moving my eyes back to my notepad before I get accused of checking him out or something.

  “Which one would that be?” I ask.

  “Beer Wars, A New Hop.”

  I scribble it down with a grin. That is the best one.

  I return my attention to the woman. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?”

  “Well, since we’ve had plenty of time to look this over…” she says pointedly, lips pursed with annoyance.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her off because they were only sitting here for maybe five minutes, but I resist.

  Barely.

  “I’ll have a large chicken apple salad,” she continues after a dramatic pause. “No dressing. Not on the side or anything. None. At. All.”

  “Got it,” I mutter, writing down the woman’s order, wanting so badly to comment on her insistence on not having dressing. What sort of psychopath eats dry salads?

  “For you, sir?”

  He chuckles at this, but I ignore him, pen poised and ready for his order.

  “I’ll have the chicken fingers and fries, please.”

  The urge to roll my eyes at the moron who just ordered chicken fingers and fries at Slice—the hottest pizza place along the coast—is strong.

  “You do realize this is a pizza place, right?”

  Well, at least I didn’t roll my eyes…

  Another deep laugh.

  “Yes, Wren, I realize that.”