4. MJ
MJ
I t’s almost five when Jeremy, the guy we hired to help on weekends, finally rolls in, tossing his hoodie on the hook by the back office like he owns the place.
“Yo, MJ,” he calls, already popping his knuckles. “You want me on reheats or cash?”
“Reheats and register,” I say, tying my apron tighter. “You’ve got both stations till close. Keep it tight, Jeremy. We’re already loaded with Friday pre-orders.”
“You got it, boss.” He gives me a salute with the pizza cutter, and I try not to imagine the headline Local Pizzeria Burned Down by Overconfident Teen with Knife Fetish.
Whatever .
He’s decent, if a little cocky with the pizza rocker—a pizza cutting tool with a handle on the top and giant, curved blade across the bottom.
But now that he’s clocked in, I can finally escape the front counter.
Thank the cheese gods.
The Wilton family’s standing order just pinged, and I head to the kitchen to get started on the dinner rush.
Half a tray of pasta, half a tray of chicken cutlets, half a tray of salad. Two pepperoni pies. A caramel apple dessert pizza. Every Friday. Like clockwork.
Mrs. Wilton says it gives her a break from cooking. I get that. Life’s hard. And if I can make dinner easier for a family of nine, that’s something.
Feels good, you know?
It’s weird, but knowing my food helps people—it’s personal.
Like I’m feeding their memories.
And okay, yes, that does make me sound like an overly sentimental cannoli, but sue me.
It’s how I was raised.
Feed the body, feed the soul.
And if you can make ‘em cry happy tears with a perfectly toasted garlic knot? You’ve done your job.
I’ve just started the second tray of pasta when it hits me again—that weird flutter in my stomach from earlier.
My mind goes right to that guy.
The one with the golden eyes and that cocky “I’m-not-looking-for-anything-serious-but-I’ll-ruin-your-life-in-the-best-way” kind of strut.
Except he tripped.
Like, full-on, dumbass trip over his own boots just trying to walk in a straight line.
And for me? That’s just too cute. Like, be still, my heart cute.
Six-foot-something of pure, manly swagger, wearing jeans like a second skin and a black T-shirt that had zero business doing that to his chest.
I mean, come on. I’m trying to run a business here, not a thirst trap.
But the eyes.
It was the eyes that did me in.
Warm gold. Curious. A little wary. Like he wasn’t used to feeling the way he was feeling when he looked at me.
Which is ridiculous, of course.
I mean, Uncle Uzzi said he was just an old friend of his. Some guy starting a limo service nearby.
Okay, I know that means he’s not quite human—and with his build, I can totally see that—but so what?
These days, some of my favorite people are actually supernaturals keeping that part of their lives a secret in this big, bad modern world.
I think it’s amazing. And brave. But also maybe lonely.
And that brings me back to Mr. Gold Eyes.
Something about the way Uncle Uzzi’s eyes twinkled when they sat down made me suspicious.
Like he was watching a match catch fire.
Is this real? Was that a setup?
I mean, the dude did seem kind of startled to see me. And distracted. And not in the oh-no-I-forgot-my-wallet kind of way.
More like wow-I-might-have-finally-met-the-person-who-can-rock-my-world kind of way.
And honestly? Same.
Not that I’m getting my hopes up.
I mean, let’s be real—he probably has some supermodel girlfriend who wears vintage leather and smells like champagne and zero calories.
Or he’s allergic to gluten.
Or he’s got a personality like a dial tone .
Still, I wonder as I crack open the oven and slide in a tray of garlic knots, inhaling the familiar scent of butter, herbs, and possibility.
Maybe it’s okay to be curious.
Maybe it’s okay to wonder what it’d feel like to lean into something good.
Even if it’s just for a minute.
Even if all he’ll ever be is a customer, or just a friend.
Because if Mr. Gold Eyes walks back through that door?
I am definitely pretending to drop something in front of him.