Chapter Three
When I first met Tyler Ferris, I was being peer-pressured by my mom.
I wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to work at a greasy, sweaty pizza joint.
Sure, the food was good, and I wasn’t the poor soul stuck doing deliveries, but coming home smelling like yeasty dough and simmered sauces isn’t high on your list of priorities when you’re sixteen.
But Mom was insistent that, now that I was growing into semi-adulthood, I needed a semi-adult job to prove it.
She’d already successfully coerced me into joining the field hockey team freshman year—arguing that spending all my time with her probably wasn’t the most healthy—and now she was on a kick to get me employed, too.
“Besides,” she’d added jovially as she drove me to the interview. “It’ll feel nice to make your own money. You’ll certainly be making more here than you do for your weekly allowance taking out the garbage.” (She was right on that point, but not by much.)
I’d walked into Suburban Slices feeling wary, eyeing the chipped cement sidewalk outside and the hopelessly outdated glass brick window design, a pit forming in my stomach.
As much as I wanted to go to the mall with my friends on the weekend with my own bit of cash to spend, I suddenly wasn’t sure if it was worth working here.
I made a mental note to see if any of the stuck-up shops at the mall were hiring.
All the while, I was gripping the handle of my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of my planner inside.
Hey, even if this interview is a bust, at least I got to put a cute pizza sticker next to the interview note in today’s date box.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside, enveloped by the comforting smells of warm tomato sauce and crispy dough.
The place was nice, if not a little small, with a few mismatched tables and chairs and a glass-topped pizza counter where two people were busily working.
One was an older-looking man, all dark, wiry arm hair and bushy eyebrows, radiating the aura of being in charge, twisting dough between his fingers and spreading it out into a circular shape.
His accomplice was younger, around my age, and was intensely stirring a vat of sauce before ladling some onto the stretched-out dough.
At first glance, his face looked vaguely familiar, in a way that I couldn’t quite place. Had I seen him around before?
“Hi.” My voice came out embarrassingly squeaky and nervous, so I cleared my throat and started over. “Is Nunzio here? I’m supposed to have an interview for a position.”
The boy just looked up from where he was helping the chef sauce a doughy circle of uncooked pizza, one eyebrow quirking up curiously, dark eyes studying me. “Interview?” he repeated, as if it was a foreign word, turning to the chef for confirmation. “I didn’t even know he did those.”
The chef responded with a grunt, sprinkling soft-looking cheese onto the pizza. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything else, the boy turned to me apologetically.
“Sorry about that.” He laughed awkwardly. “Let me go try to find him.” He returned the ladle to its vat of sauce and disappeared into the swinging back doors of the kitchen.
I tried my best not to be awkward—and certainly failed—by wandering over to the fridge of bottled sodas, checking out their collection.
The chef at the front continued his pizza-making task, completely ignoring me, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe this was a bad idea after all.
Sure, the stores at the mall were filled with snobby employees who seemed to resent you for wanting to shop, but it was probably better than working here.
I heard the doors swing back open and turned around just in time to see a short, gray-haired Italian man strolling out from the kitchen, the dark-haired boy in tow. Nunzio, the owner, judging by the way he clapped his hands and studied me, came to a stop practically nose to nose with me.
“Olive, yes?” He squinted as he looked at me, whether from old age or old-school Italian scrutiny, I couldn’t be sure.
“Yes, sir.” I worried that it sounded too formal, and the quirk of the boy’s smile as he stepped back behind the counter and resumed his pizza-making tasks confirmed it.
“You’re here for the job, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nunzio chuckled. “This is not the military, Olive. No need to be so formal.”
Face burning in embarrassment, all I could do was nod.
The boy piped up from the counter, saving me the mental anguish. “Said she’s here for an interview.”
“Ah, yes, that.” Nunzio waved his hand flippantly, dismissing any concern. He turned his full focus back on me. “Are you able to follow directions?”
I forced myself to sound grown up and mature, straightening my spine, hoping I was pulling it off. “I am.”
Nunzio hummed a noise of approval. “And can you count?”
“I…I can.” Previous math classes may have put that statement into question, but it was nothing he needed to know.
He clapped his hands together excitedly, decision made.
“Perfect. You’ll start tomorrow. Tyler can show you everything you’ll need to know.
Come in at three.” Oblivious to my shock, Nunzio spun on his heel and disappeared back into the kitchen, stopping to declare something in rapid-fire Italian to the chef (who again grunted) before vanishing.
The boy at the counter—Tyler, apparently—looked at me again, impressed. “I mean, that’s pretty standard for Nunzio’s version of an interview, but I’ve never seen it happen that fast. He must really like you.”
I shifted from foot to foot, face reddening. “Thanks.” It must’ve been the pizza ovens making everything feel so stuffy and hot.
Tyler studied me for another second, lower lip jutting out slightly in concentration as he took in my dark, messy curls and green eyes, my summer freckles no doubt already making an appearance in a spray across my nose and cheeks. “Do I know you from somewhere? Do you go to Becker?”
Oh, great. “I do.” Becker High wasn’t the biggest high school in the world, but it was definitely big enough not to know every single person there, and it looked like this Tyler guy was one of them. “I’m guessing you do, too?”
He flicked a handful of cheese in my direction with a wicked grin, laughing as I blinked in surprise. “Guilty.”
“Interesting.” The giggle that slipped past my lips surprised even me, and all I could do was blink again as I picked a stray piece of cheese out of my hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around.”
Tyler gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest. “You wound me, Olive Austin. I’ve certainly seen you around.”
My brain hooked on to the fact that he clearly did know me—he mentioned my last name without me ever bringing it up. Which brought on another hot flush of embarrassment, because not only did I have no idea who this guy was, but he also caught me.
I opened my mouth to start to apologize, because really, what else was there to do, but he just waved it off with a good-natured smile.
“It’s all good. My friends and I have always been more of the stick-to-the-sidelines type.
But I’m sure you’ll get to know me a lot better now that you’re a fellow Suburban Slices pizza slinger.
” He puffed up his chest proudly, which jerked a laugh out of me.
“Here,” he said, reaching out his hand. “Let me give you my number. In case you have any questions.”
“Questions?” I raised my eyebrow at him unconvincingly.
“About what? Directions to get to my place of employment, which I’m clearly already at and need no help getting to?
” Still, I placated him and slipped my phone out of my back pocket, placing it in his palm.
He tapped the screen for a few seconds before passing it back, proudly displaying my new contact—the name Tyler with the slice of pizza emoji next to it.
“Nice,” I deadpanned. “Real clever. I never would’ve guessed.”
He shrugged in response. “Sometimes you gotta go for the obvious, right?” His teeth were nearly blinding in the fluorescent lights when he flashed them at me playfully.
The sound of Mom tapping the car horn outside shattered the moment, and I turned back to Tyler apologetically. “That’s my ride. I have to go.” I hurriedly combed the last stray flecks of cheese out of my hair and headed toward the door. “See you tomorrow, I guess?”
Tyler nodded at me, an undeniable warmth radiating from him. “See you tomorrow, Olive.”
And while that was the first night I fell asleep thinking about his deep dimples and meltingly perfect brown eyes, it certainly wasn’t the last.