Chapter 7 Rob
ROB
Great H Bagels opened for business on a cloudy Saturday morning in autumn.
The windows were so clean, they sparkled off the glare of the pendant lights over the counter.
The glass cases adjacent to the marble counter were stuffed to capacity with a medley of flavored bagels: plain, poppyseed, onion, chocolate, everything—you name it, we had it.
We also offered specialty gourmet creations like the ones we’d served at our preopening party and a “build your own bagel sandwich” option, along with a variety of standard sandwiches ranging from breakfast to turkey, roast beef, chicken salad, and tuna.
Oh yeah, and we had pizza bagels.
I highly doubted we’d sell many, but I had no regrets. Every time I thought of that altercation or whatever the fuck had happened with Mateo in my kitchen, I got hot under the collar. Seriously. I wanted to punch a hole in the wall or punch his freaking gorgeous face.
Or kiss him again.
Not going to happen and not important. The important thing was…pizza bagels.
Which, by the way, weren’t terrible.
They weren’t flying off the shelves, though.
Our best sellers so far were the baker’s dozen, the breakfast sandwich supreme with scrambled eggs, avocado, red onions, and special secret sauce…
oh, and our gourmet smoked lox and caviar was a big hit.
In fact, in the two weeks we’d been open, business had been fantastic.
Haverton liked bagels.
Not that I was surprised. Amber and I had done our research. A college-slash-beach-town practically required a bagel shop, and it was criminal that the residents had gone without one for so long. Of course, I knew that to some degree, I was the novelty.
The name alone was a nod to the football team.
The Haverton Hawks were also known as the Great Hawks and the school itself, Great H.
As an alumni and former player, I had no qualms with advertising my personal connection to the town.
My jerseys from college and every pro team I’d played on had been framed and lovingly hung on the brick wall.
It was a statement: I’m one of you. I belong.
Of course, if the bagels sucked, the novelty would wear off fast. But we’d hired a talented crew and with my grandfather’s recipe book and Amber’s marketing and culinary skills, we were in fine shape. Much to our neighbor’s chagrin.
I still couldn’t believe he was selling pizza bagels. Did I mention that Mateo Cavaretti was a dick?
“Mr. Vilmer, will you sign my shirt, please?”
I stepped away from the counter and smiled at the kid who might have been around ten or eleven. “Sure. Got a pen?”
His dad happened to have a marker on hand. I didn’t recognize him, but apparently, we’d had a statistics class together in college. He wanted to talk football, though, so I obliged for a minute or so before moving on to greet the other customers in line.
I was the resident celebrity here, and I knew it was important to use whatever we had to get people in the door, but I wasn’t naturally gregarious. I preferred being behind the counter, ringing up sales. However, the busier we were, the more distracting my presence was at the register.
Customers wanted a sporty side scoop with their bagels.
What was Tom Brady like? Which QB currently had the best arm?
Who was my favorite teammate? Where had I liked playing the best?
I never minded answering questions, but being the focus of attention got old.
I found myself dipping out of the shop for a breather, which inevitably led me to Boardwalk Pizza.
I didn’t always go inside. No, I was more of a lurker.
Other than Mateo, they were a nice group.
Vanni was a goofball, Jimmy was a cool dude who was a little full of himself, and Sal was reserved but always friendly.
If Mateo wasn’t at the counter, I’d say hello with a bag of free bagels and cream cheese on hand, order a slice, and shoot the shit for a minute or two.
Sometimes a growly Mateo would make an appearance and that was awkward, but whatever. I wasn’t going anywhere, so he might as well get used to seeing me around.
And maybe I was a little curious about that kiss. There were sparks here. Like the kind that sizzled in the air and sent tingles of electricity along my spine. I couldn’t have been the only one who’d felt it.
Besides if there was a pizza-bagel war happening, I needed to know the rules.
I’d assumed Mateo’s initial strategy would be to ignore me until he had a competitive product, and I’d been right.
Vanni had spilled the beans to Amber and me about the new kettle they’d purchased. He’d said it was bound to be a write-off, but a week later, Boardwalk Pizza featured their first ever pizza bagel…a basic marinara, cheese, and pepperoni number.
I’d wanted to buy one, but Mateo was at the counter that day.
Our conversation had gone something like this:
Me, tapping the glass. “I’ll take one of those.”
Mateo, shaking his head, a feral gleam in his eye. “I’m not selling you a pizza bagel. Sorry, champ.”
“How mature of you. I’ll pay double.”
“No.”
“Triple.”
Mateo had turned away and returned with a slice of their pizza of the day. “Take it and beat it. Next in line, please.”
Fucker.
And yeah, I’d wanted to grab his hair and kiss the fuck out of him.
Vanni had brought me a pizza bagel an hour later. On the house. “Sorry about that. Teo’s a hothead. We can use an expert opinion, but I gotta tell you, I think these are okay. Not as good as yours, but still decent.”
I’d agreed. So had Amber, who’d laughed at the idea of our pizza-bagel war.
“It seems more like two jocks pissing on each other’s cleats for funsies. Guys are so weird.” She’d snorted.
True. But you know what? Mateo had started it, so when he’d slipped in the door to clandestinely check out our business, I’d given him a taste of his own medicine.
“Your money is no good here,” I’d said in greeting, a phony grin pasted to my mug. “Anything you want is on the house.”
Mateo had cocked his head and frowned. “I don’t want anything.”
“You’re here. You must want something,” I’d taunted, staring at his mouth.
“Yeah, I wanted to see if you’d come to your senses.”
“Nope. I guess that means we’re still at war.”
“Guess so,” he’d grumbled, turning on his heels.
Yep, the rules of war had been unclear. That was until Mateo renamed his pizza bagel, “The Best in Town.”
It was a subtle dig, but I couldn’t ignore it. I retaliated by sticking mini pennants in our pizza bagels, labeled, “The Original.” And “The Best Ever.” Hokey and childish? Yes. And I couldn’t wait till someone told him.
Sure enough, Mateo stormed in the next day to scoff at my pizza bagel and made a snide remark about the pennants. “Gee, I wonder if the owner ever played football.”
Fuck that guy.
Yet here I was, sneaking out of my own store to see what my unpleasant neighbor was up to now…
because I kind of got a cheap thrill from winding him up.
It was as if I’d tapped into a hidden power.
Not as exciting as mind reading or an invisibility cloak, but knowing I’d needled my way under Mateo’s skin was oddly gratifying.
If I were completely honest, there was more to this feud for me. Try not to laugh, but…I had his attention. I’d kissed the hottest guy in town, the most popular jock in college, the goddamn star quarterback.
Mateo might not like me. But he noticed me. And he wanted me.
Okay, he might not admit that, but…those sparks, remember?
Mateo peeked into my store window when he thought I wasn’t looking. He asked Amber about me, mentioned me to his cousins. Mateo Cavaretti was thinking about me. Often.
I liked it.
And today, I was feeling brave.
I spotted Mateo behind the counter, sporting his ubiquitous red-and-white checked shirt and a grungy white apron. The combo should have given “picnic with a pig” vibes but instead was annoyingly sexy.
That could have just been him.
Mateo had a great smile, damn it. His eyes crinkled, his full lips parted and snagged on one of his incisors, and his dimples were the stuff of teen magazines.
He was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome.
Always had been. I hated that the sight of him made my pulse skitter, but it fascinated me too.
After all this time, Mateo Cavaretti still got to me.
“Ah, look who’s here. Business must be slow,” he greeted me as I approached the counter.
“Nope. The line is out the door.” Slight exaggeration, but we were busy enough. And so was he. There wasn’t anyone waiting for service, but almost every table was taken.
“Good for you. If you’re here looking for new ideas…don’t. I’ve decided to trademark everything in the store. If you steal any—”
“Steal? Are you fucking joking?”
“Watch the language, Vilmer. This is a family establishment. My ma would smack you upside the head if she heard you talkin’ like that. We keep it clean here.”
I pointed at his messy apron. “Ri-ght…real clean. And who’s stealing from who? You bought a bagel kettle.”
“You made a pizza bagel! Pizza!” Mateo picked up a pizza box and tapped it obnoxiously.
“Look at this…established in Brooklyn, New York in 1900, established in Haverton in 1958. Same year the Dodgers moved to LA. That means we’ve been here for well over sixty years.
You haven’t even been open sixty days, genius. So don’t twist my words or—”
“Oh, look at you guys…getting along.” Amber breezed into the restaurant, waving at Vanni through the kitchen partition before nudging my elbow at the counter.
“He started it,” Mateo said.
She huffed. “Don’t you think this feud is kind of silly?”
“No,” we replied in unison.
“Well, it is. It’s petty and ridiculous and—” Amber paused abruptly, pushing an errant curl behind her ear as she cast a wary glance between us. “Oh, my God. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”
“Think of what?” one of us asked.