Chapter 4 Rob
ROB
You know that saying, “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes?” Yeah, well…
until recently, I’d assumed that old adage could never apply to me.
I rectified the noise escalation by having Amber deliver a stack of coupons next door, requesting that she give them to anyone other than Mateo.
I hoped a free bagel and an apology would appease Boardwalk Pizza’s owners and customers.
The last thing I wanted to do was ostracize our neighbors, but damn it… Mateo was a real SOB.
But only to me.
Everyone else loved the guy.
Terrence, the mailman: “You got great neighbors here. They’re good people. But you probably already know Mateo from college, so you know he’s a sweetheart. And a hard worker too.”
Mary Flannigan, a fiftysomething woman who’d introduced herself as a sixth-grade teacher while her energetic labradoodle ran circles around her on the sidewalk: “I’ve taught all the locals, like the Cavarettis.
Let me tell you that Mateo’s an angel—a good family man.
He takes care of his mom and his aunt, and you should have seen him with his father at the end. God rest his soul.”
Carly, the barista at Boardwalk Coffee: “If you played football here, you probably know Mateo…you know, from Boardwalk Pizza? OMG. He’s so fine.”
Uh-huh.
And don’t get me started on Amber.
“I have a huge crush. Huge! Mateo is hunkier now than he was in college.”
“Is he, though?” I’d scoffed.
Amber had giggled like a besotted schoolgirl. “That would be a big, fat yes. And you know it! C’mon, he’s totally your type, too. Dark and broody with a sexy smile and bedroom eyes and—”
I’d stuffed a bagel bite into her mouth to shut her up and hopefully end the conversation. I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to deny or defend myself. We both knew she was right. If he wasn’t an annoying jerk, I’d admit that Mateo was obscenely hot.
And yes, after everything she’d been through, it was nice to see Amber gush over a good-looking guy. But I sincerely hoped she didn’t start something with that dickhead.
“You can do better than him. Much better,” I’d assured her.
“Hmm. I dunno. I might have a thing for Italians who know how to knead dough.” She’d batted her lashes while I’d rolled my eyes. “Lighten up, Robbie. And be nice. We’re the new kids in town. We need friends, not enemies.”
Friends with Mateo? Yeah…probably not happening any time soon. My best bet was to avoid him altogether. At least for now.
Starting a business and settling into a new groove in a place I hadn’t called home in years kept me busy. I spent most of the summer getting reacquainted with the town and reestablishing old connections. It wasn’t enough to hang a sign and hope for the best. No, I had to schmooze.
I met with the mayor and her husband, the president of Haverton and his husband, and Coach Mulveney, who I fully credited with steering me to a career in the pros.
If he wanted them, Coach could feast on free bagels for as long as the Big H was in business.
My grandfather had taught me that it was important to acknowledge the folks who’d played a part in your success.
“A complimentary treat might seem like a silly token of esteem, but an everything bagel with extra cream cheese goes a long way,” Grandpa had insisted.
I believed him. Grandpa’s loyal customers hadn’t just loved his bagels. They’d loved him. He’d been a Philly institution, a friendly familiar face who’d often tell his middle-aged customers that he remembered them as babies. And at the end of the day, everyone wanted to be remembered.
Mateo and his cousins had the advantage there for sure. His dad and uncle had been legends when we were in college. Somehow, they’d known everyone’s name. Even mine.
“We gotta football hero in the house! That was some game the other night, huh? What can I get ya?” Mr. Cavaretti had been quick with a fist bump, a wink, and a gentle nudge toward the special of the day.
Drinks had always been on the house for the football team, and after a big win, Mateo’s dad had offered free slices of pepperoni too.
To be honest, I couldn’t swear that he knew my name, but he’d made me feel important for a minute or so, and that had made an impression.
And the pizza was damn good.
But so were Grandpa’s bagels.
Gramps had sold a variety of flavors and thankfully, had left copious notes with his recipe book.
Add pinch of cinn on CR. Code: cinnamon raisin.
Fresh dill for CC. Code: fresh herbs for cream cheese.
I’d happily handed the book to Amber. She was the master of the kitchen and in marketing, while I was the name behind the brand.
I was the money man, the taste tester, and the guy in charge of ambience.
See, throwing a few pennants on the walls might pay homage to the town and remind folks that I’d once been one of them, but I wanted the space to feel… safe, somehow.
Cozy. Like somewhere you’d want to hang out before your day started or in between classes.
In the corner booth, head bent over a textbook, battered and torn backpack on the floor, out of sight, disappearing in the hiss of steam from the kettle, the hum of the coffeemaker, the thwunk of the bread slicer, the buzz of conversation and laughter.
A warm bagel with a side of cream cheese slides onto the table, a hand squeezes my shoulder, the smell of cinnamon, garlic, and kindness.
A safe haven. The calm in a storm of adolescent fears and insecurities. Maybe that was a tall ask of your average bagel shop, but it was an honorable goal.
But first, I had some boxes to unpack.
I tossed a few empty ones into the alley and headed inside to help Amber and our new hires, Krista and Connor, with some heavy lifting in the pantry. Fifteen minutes later, I dumped another six boxes outside and—
“What’s all this?” Mateo groused, gesturing to the discarded pile of cardboard.
I did a double take, instantly irked that I noticed Mateo’s muscular forearms and the proud jut of his stubbled jaw.
What was wrong with me? I’d been careful not to ogle him in college.
That had more to do with self-preservation than a lack of admiration, but still.
He’d been civil back then. Now…not so much.
“Those are boxes, genius.”
“Oh, really?” he deadpanned. “You gotta break ’em down, genius.”
“That’s literally what I was about to do,” I lied, pulling my keys from my pocket.
“With keys? Don’t you have box cutters?”
“Nope.” I smiled…extra wide.
Mateo cocked his head and sighed. “All right. Fine.”
He disappeared inside the pizzeria and returned a minute later with a box cutter.
I frowned, staring at the blade suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just being a conscientious and thoughtful neighbor.”
I didn’t miss the emphasis or the implication that a good neighbor would be mindful of competing menus, but I maturely decided not to take the bait. It had been a long day already, and the last thing I needed was to pick a fight with the grouch next door.
“Thanks. I’ll return them within the hour.”
Mateo grunted, then pulled a second box cutter from his apron and began breaking down boxes. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I didn’t need the help, but maybe this was Mateo’s way of calling a truce.
We worked in silence. It might have been strained if not for the cacophony of everyday life—traffic from the main road, salsa music from the studio behind us, someone singing off-key to a Bon Jovi classic, the clatter of dishware, competing conversations, and the list went on.
The simple chore of collapsing cardboard was almost relaxing in the sea of noise.
Almost.
“This is a lot of boxes.” Mateo commented.
“Yeah. The deliveries should ease up now.”
“Opening soon?”
I nodded. “Next week.”
“Hmm.”
I stacked the last box, thanked him for his help, and in the spirit of peace offerings, I added, “Yeah, Amber just sent out invitations for the launch party. You should come.”
Mateo widened his eyes comically. “Why? Are you gonna spike my punch or something?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided.” My lips quirked. “But seriously, Coach will be there. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
“If he wanted to see me, he’d eat more pizza.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Asshole-itis is a real condition, huh?”
“Sorry. I was on a roll.” Mateo winced sheepishly and crossed his arms. “It would be nice to see Coach. It’s been a while.”
“He looks good,” I said conversationally. “I thought he’d be retired by now, but he says he’s got a couple of years in him.”
“I think that has more to do with the freshman QB who just transferred to Haverton. I heard the kid’s got an amazing arm.”
“Better than yours?”
Mateo squinted as if giving the question some thought. “Nah. Not that good.”
I chuckled. “I didn’t think so.”
His smile was a reluctant lopsided upturn of lips, but it was pure sunshine. If he hadn’t motioned for me to return his box cutter, I might have been caught drooling ’cause damn it, Mateo really was that stunning.
I handed him the box cutter with an up nod.
“Later, Vilmer.”
“I…later.”
I watched Mateo hop the back steps to Boardwalk Pizza, half confused and half turned-on. I wasn’t sure, but I think we’d wordlessly agreed to be, dare I say it—friendly. That was good. As for the turned-on part—well, that just meant I had a healthy libido.
And bad taste.
I’d have to work on that, I mused, whistling as I headed inside.