8. MJ
MJ
I t’s Thursday.
Which means today’s special—a pepperoni, hot honey, pie with burrata—is everyone’s go to.
So yeah, chaos, and at least three last-minute customers asking if we can make that gluten-free but also with extra crust somehow.
I’ve got flour on my shirt, a marinara stain on my left boob, and my hair’s in a bun so messy it looks like I got in a fight with a KitchenAid and lost.
In other words, I’m up to my usual gold standard appearance-wise.
I’m elbows-deep in dough when Jeremy pops his head into the kitchen .
“Hey MJ, big group order just came in through the app. You want me to confirm it?”
“Nah, I got it.” I wipe my hands on my apron and swipe open the screen behind the counter.
And then I freeze.
Carter Leone.
Six large meat lovers’ pies.
Two grandma pies.
One tray of garlic knots.
One tray of chicken parmigiana.
Six Caesar salads (bold of him to think I wouldn’t notice the attempt at balance).
Pick-up. Under his name. Every week. For Pizza Thursdays, apparently.
My heart does that annoying fluttery thing it really needs to stop doing.
Because what the hell?
We exchanged, like, three words.
He ate a pizza.
Almost fell over his own feet.
Then bolted like he was allergic to marinara.
But that’s not even the worst thing.
Nope. That happened after.
Like when I got home, and I stupidly finished my profile for Date to Mate.
It took about twelve hours for the algorithm to calibrate or Uncle Uzzi’s magic to work, then I heard it the next day— ping!
Date to Mate App
You’ve got a match!
So, I sent him a message telling him I was excited to meet up.
And what did I hear?
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Freaking crickets.
I know I shouldn’t take it personally, but how could I not?
I should be over it. Over him. The match that never was.
Except he’s back.
Well, not yet, but he’s coming. In person. To pick up this order.
And now I’m internally spiraling.
I grab a clean towel and start wiping down a counter that’s already clean.
“Everything good?” Carina calls from her back office.
She’s here doing the books, which is good because I suck at that.
“Fine!” I shout back like a liar. “Just thinking about, um, changing the tomatoes for good sauce consistency!”
Sauce consistency. Lord, help me.
I turn back to the fancy computer system we now use for orders, and I recheck the screen.
Nope. No mistake.
The name is still there, blinking at me like some sort of cosmic joke.
Carter Leone.
Like a dare. Like a warning.
Or maybe like a second chance.
I mean, it’s probably a coincidence.
Totally normal for sexy, flustered men who run luxury transportation services to set up weekly group pizza nights and personally pick them up.
Definitely.
Definitely not him testing the waters to see if his ignoring our match-up on Date to Mate will affect my cooking ability.
Hint: It won’t.
I shake off my nerves.
Square my shoulders.
Adjust the boob stain for confidence.
If this guy thinks he can rattle me by showing up in person after his rejection, he has another think coming!
I might not be the most confident woman in the world, but there are somethings I know I do well, and pizza is one of them.
The other? Well, wouldn’t he like to find out!
“Alright, Pizza Thursday,” I mutter under my breath. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”