A Pizza My Heart Page 2

  I draw my eyes away from the order pad and stare at him unabashedly for the first time, not caring if his date thinks I’m trying to score with him or not.

  I’ve heard my name from that mouth before, just not in a long time.

  “F-Foster?”

  His full lips tilt up at the corners, his smile reaching his sage green eyes. “In the flesh.”

  I blink down at him, surprised as hell to see my brother’s best friend sitting before me.

  He looks so…different. So very un-Foster-like.

  His skin is much darker, for one, probably from all that California sun. He’s sporting some serious five-o’clock shadow, a far cry from the clean-shaven twenty-two-year-old who ran off with a vacationing beauty so long ago. And his arms…they’re…definitely big, the blue shirt he’s wearing stretched precariously across his toned body.

  He looks nothing like the Foster who packed up and moved across the country several years ago, not even bothering to come back for a single visit.

  So different this can’t be him…right?

  I blink again.

  Nope. It’s him.

  Foster Marlett. Here, in North Carolina. Back after almost four years away, almost to the day.

  “What… How…” Words, Wren—use them. I clear my throat. “When did you get back?”

  “Just last week. Winston didn’t mention it?”

  “He’s been—”

  “Can you add a basket of fries to my order?” a female voice interrupts.

  Ah, yes. The woman he’s here with…

  I study her hard, waiting for the moment of recognition to hit…but it never comes.

  The woman Foster Marlett is on a date with is not his wife.

  I glance back to him, confused as hell and looking for answers, but he’s still grinning at me like there’s nothing wrong.

  Okay then.

  “He’s been…?” he prompts.

  Right. I was talking.

  “Preoccupied,” I finally say. “You know Winston and his…well, extracurricular activities.”

  “He’ll never settle down.”

  “They said that about you too.”

  “Yeah, well, look how that turned out,” he says quietly.

  I glance at the woman across from him, a million questions rolling around in my head.

  Who is she?

  What is she doing here?

  Where has she been?

  Who am I? That’s one secret I’ll—

  Okay, fine, this isn’t Gossip Girl, but still.

  She’s not the woman Foster married. So, who is she?

  Furthermore, is Foster here to stay or just visiting?

  And what did she want to add to her order again? Onion rings?

  “I didn’t—” Foster starts.

  “I think that’s all we’ll need,” the woman says, cutting him off and blinking up at me with a thinly veiled irritated grin.

  “Right.” I give her a tightlipped smile, picking up what she’s putting down. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  “Do make sure it’s right back,” she adds as I turn.

  I gnash my teeth together, working hard to not let anything else accidentally slip out of my mouth tonight, and make my way to the drink station to grab her soda.

  “I lied before. Randy is a troll compared to that fine specimen,” Drew says in my ear, sliding up next to me and looking out over at the floor. “Who is that?”

  “Crazy. She is crazy. She ordered a salad with no dressing and then added a side of onion rings. Who does that?”

  Drew sighs. “Number one, it’s called balance. Number two, we both know I was not talking about the woman, though she is ridiculously gorgeous. Who is that guy? It looked like you know him.”

  “Are you even paying attention to your customers when you’re out on the floor? Or are you spying on me the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  I narrow my eyes at her non-answer. “Right. Anyway, I do know him. Or I did.”

  “Cool, cool, cool. But how? And who is he?”

  “He’s…”

  I stare back out at Foster, trying to find the words to describe him.

  Growing up, he was a pain in my ass. Always there to help Winston tease me. Always there to make me feel like the third wheel. Always there to make all my sleepovers extremely awkward because “Oh my god, I didn’t know the Foster Marlett was gonna be here!”

  He was always there.

  But after Mom died, it didn’t feel like that anymore. He was my confidant. He became my best friend as much as he was Winston’s.

  And suddenly I was glad he was always there.

  Until he wasn’t anymore.

  Leaving without much warning, he headed to California to be with some girl he’d only just met that summer.

  Then it was like he had never been there to begin with.

  As if he knows I’m thinking about him, he glances over, sending me a smile I don’t remember being so…charming.

  Foster and charming—ha!

  More like Foster and annoying, or Foster and please leave me alone before I strangle you.

  He’s always played the brother’s best friend role to a T, and that’s all he’s ever been. Just…Foster. I’ve never spent time looking at him before, never noticed his smile. Or his eyes. Or, well, him.

  But now? Yeah, I’m definitely noticing him.

  And not just because he’s still staring at me.

  I give him a small wave and, though it takes a moment, he turns back to his date.

  I don’t look away yet.

  I can’t.

  It’s strange to see him here, especially since I can’t believe he’s the same Foster I’ve known since I was thirteen and covered in zits and horrible makeup.

  He never looked like he does now. He didn’t have those arms, that facial hair…or that deep, rumbling voice that makes it sound like he’s reading me one of my beloved audiobooks.

  “He’s…what? Hot?” Drew interrupts my thoughts. “Yes, I can see that, Wren, but I want to know more.”

  Fine, I’ll give her that much—the Foster sitting before us is hot.

  But he’s married and my brother’s best friend who I’ve known way too long, which means even if I did find him attractive beyond his obvious transformation, he’s off-limits.

  “He’s Winston’s best friend,” I tell her, pulling my eyes from Foster and his newfound hotness. “And he’s just okay looking. I wouldn’t call him hot.”

  Drew smiles like she sees right through me, because she does.

  “You’re full of shit. That man is dreamy. I can’t believe Winston has friends who look like that. We are talking about your brother Winston, the man whore, right?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Good lord,” she murmurs, still staring at him. “I want to lick his stubble.”

  “Are you in heat or something? You seem hornier today than usual.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She waves me off. “Anyway, tell me more about this ‘best friend’ Winston has. What’s his name? Why haven’t I met him before?”

  “His name is Foster and—”

  “Foster? His name is Foster?” She nearly explodes. “Even his name is hot!”

  I heave a sigh. “Seriously, Drew, you’re wearing me out today.”

  “I’m sorry.” She chews on her bottom lip, looking worried for a moment before waving her hand through the air. “Okay, not really. How dare you hide him from me!”

  “He hasn’t lived here for years. He’s been in California.”

  She lets out a low whistle. “California has done him good.”

  My eyes drift back Foster’s way.

  They slide over his tan skin, the biceps begging to be let free from his sleeves. The new tattoo covering his forearm. The stubble Drew wants to lick.

  She’s right—California has done him good, which makes me wonder why he’s back in town after being gone so long, after leaving me with a hole the s
ize of the fucking moon inside my heart. He was my best friend and he left me. Never really said goodbye either.

  What the hell is Foster doing here? And why is he sitting in the middle of my father’s restaurant with a woman who definitely isn’t his wife?

  Slice Two

  Foster

  “So…” My LustStruck date Natasha draws the word out. “Where are you from, Foster?”

  I peer around the pizzeria I practically grew up in. At a glance, it doesn’t appear as if anything has changed in the nearly thirty years it’s been open. But, if you look closer, and if you’ve been patronizing the joint for as long as I have, you know they’ve made updates over the last few years.

  New tables, different chairs. A more modern fabric stretched across the booths. Simon even replaced the outdated light fixtures.

  Nothing major, but enough to give it a fresh feel.

  Which is what makes it odd to be sitting here again after so many years. It doesn’t feel like my version of Slice.

  The place I got my first job. Got into my first fist fight—because one of the summer visitors got grabby with a waitress—and got my first black eye. Had my heart broken by the girl who never knew I was head over heels for her.

  But I guess that’s what happens when you pick up and move across the country to avoid…well, everything.

  Shit changes. Life goes on.

  “Here,” I tell her eventually. She thinks I mean the area, and technically I do, but I also mean right here, Slice. This place is home. It’s always been home.

  She wrinkles her button nose. “You sure? You don’t look like you’re from here. You have a sort of…vibe about you, like you’re from money or somewhere far away.”

  I hold back my snort. I am definitely not from money, not even close.

  We didn’t have it as bad as some kids, but I remember getting the free lunches at school and not having a new pair of pristine kicks on the first day of classes. My parents didn’t have it easy making ends meet, but we never went without the essentials.

  “I just moved back here from California.”

  Natasha sits up at this revelation, her interest in me clearly piqued. “Really? I’ve always wanted to go there. When are you headed back?”

  Did she miss the moved back part?

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders sink inward as if the information disappoints her, like she thought I was going to invite her back to Cali with me.

  Yeah…no.

  “Are you from around here?” I ask after a few beats of awkward silence.

  “Off and on. My family spends summers here.”

  “Is that why you’re here? For the summer?”

  “It is.” She sits forward, pushing her breasts between her arms and toying with the salt shaker sitting in the middle of the table. “But I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”

  Warning bells begin ringing inside my head.

  The last time I hooked up with a summer beach bunny, I married her…then divorced her four years later.

  It’s fair to say I’m wary of anyone without roots.

  “Are you here for long?”

  “Just two weeks before I have to head back and start summer school.”

  “Summer school?”

  “Yep.” Her mouth pops dramatically around the P. “Someone partied a bit too hard their freshman year and is now behind. If I want to graduate on time, I need to make up the credits.”

  Credits…summer school…

  More bells sound and my stomach fills with dread as I look closely at her.

  She looks young in person, but she did in her LustStruck photos too. I brushed that aside at the time, wanting to give her a chance. I don’t exactly look like I’m divorced, unemployed, and sleeping on my best friend’s couch, but here I am.

  But…she looks a little too young, and her blasé answers aren’t sitting right with me.

  If there’s one thing I learned from a dysfunctional marriage I knew wouldn’t last from the moment I said I do, it’s to always follow your gut.

  My gut says something is off here.

  I lean toward her. She matches the movement, thinking I’m flirting.

  I’m not.

  “How old are you, Natasha?” I steel my gaze, eyes boring into hers, hoping she’ll give it to me straight.

  Her eyes widen, nostrils flare.

  It’s brief, but the hesitation is there…enough to tell me what I want to know.

  Not suspecting I’m onto her game, she flits her long red hair over her shoulder. “Old enough.”

  Ah, the classic non-answer that answers everything.

  Translation: she’s way too fucking young to be on this date with me.

  Under my scrutiny, Natasha’s false bravado wavers and she squirms around in her chair, eyes darting every way but at mine.

  “Natasha?” I push, not taking my penetrating gaze off her.

  “I’m legal, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  And there it is—exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

  “Are you still in…high school?”

  “Yes.” It’s whispered. “But I’m a senior!” she rushes to add. “I’m nineteen. I got held back when I was younger. I’m very mature for my age.”

  I lean back in my seat, getting as far away from her as possible like a cop is going to slap cuffs on me just for being near her.

  Sure, she’s legal.

  But I’m seven years her senior.

  She’s a fucking teenager.

  “Did you need a kid’s menu, Foster?”

  I groan and swing my eyes toward Wren, who’s standing at the edge of the table, an amused grin dangling off her lips.

  All spunk and sass, it’s good to see not much has changed about Wren since I’ve been gone.

  I say not much because there is a lot about her that has changed.

  Her hair, of course, but that’s always been her thing, changing her hair with the seasons or whenever she gets bored.

  But there’s something different. She seems…older. Wiser. Confident.

  Sexier.

  Stop it, jackass. She doesn’t see you like that. She made that perfectly clear before.

  I sit up in my chair. “I’m starting to rethink missing you.”

  She lifts a perfectly sculpted brow, still grinning. “You missed me?”

  I give her a look because there’s no way I wouldn’t miss her.

  How could I not? I’ve known the Daniels since we were thirteen. Me, Winston, and Wren—the Three Musketeers. You couldn’t peel us apart from one another. Sure, Winston might have been my best friend, but Wren was always there too, following us everywhere with those awful butterfly clips barely holding her messy hair out of her eyes and way too much glitter BonBons lip gloss coating her lips.

  She’s been part of my life for far too long for me not to miss her…even though she’s part of the reason I left to begin with.

  But that was years ago.

  I’m over it…or at least that’s what I have to keep telling myself.

  “You know I did, Birdie.”

  Another grin tugs at her lips when I use her childhood nickname. She always bitched and moaned about it, but I knew she secretly loved it anyway.

  “Weird how my phone didn’t ring once.”

  Gut, meet Wren’s fist.

  “I—”

  “Um, excuse me,” Natasha interrupts with a bite to her tone. “Can I get my drink? I’m parched.”

  Wren’s baby blue eyes light up and I can see she’s trying to hold back a sarcastic comment. Showing admirable restraint, she flashes my date a smile and sets our drinks down.

  “Sorry about that, kiddo.”

  A grin pulls at my lips.

  I always did like passive-aggressive Wren best.

  “Can I get you two anything else while I’m here?”

  “If you could hurry it along in the kitchen, that’d be great. I’m famished.”

  “Parched and famish
ed? You poor thing. Your parents must’ve forgotten to send a snack this morning. I’ll bring some breadsticks over, on the house.”

  I take a sip of my beer in order to hide my laughter as Wren flits away, acting like she didn’t just insult the shit out of my date.

  “Someone’s cranky today,” Natasha mutters bravely. “Anyway, I—”

  I hold up my hand, stopping her. “I can’t continue this date. I’m too old for you.”

  “You’re, like, what…twenty-one?”

  “Try twenty-six.”

  “Big whoop. I’m still legal.”

  “I’m recently divorced,” I tell her.

  The table shakes and I automatically reach for my beer, trying to save the alcohol I desperately need after this disastrous encounter. Whatever moron used the red pepper flake shaker last must have unscrewed the lid to mess with people because spicy flakes go soaring across the white acrylic, coating everything, including my lap.

  “What is your damage?” Natasha screeches at the offender as I brush off my jeans.

  Wren stares down at me, mouth dropped open and eyes twice their size. “You’re what?”

  “Yeah, you’re what?” my soon-to-be ex-date echoes.

  “Recently divorced,” I say again, not looking away from Wren.

  She has a lot of questions—I can see it in her eyes—but before I can explain anything, she tosses down the basket of breadsticks and scurries away.

  I stare after her for a moment, silently begging her to come back because that was not the way I wanted to break the news of the divorce.

  “I’m fine with it.”

  I swing back toward Natasha. “Huh?”

  “You being divorced. And old.” She lifts a shoulder, her red curls bouncing. “I’m fine with it.”

  I shift around in my chair. “I’m, uh, I’m really not.”

  “Trust me, we can work around it.”

  The fuck…

  Is she really that dense? I’m trying to let her down easy and it’s not working. Time to bring out the big guns.

  “Our age difference and my divorce are just two things among the plethora of other reasons why we can’t do this. We—”

  “Ple-what?”

  I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Look, Natasha—”

  “Here’s that chocolate milk you ordered. I even put it in a to-go cup for you.”

  Wren slides the child-sized cup—complete with a crazy straw—across the table.