Chapter 5
Chapter Five
IT’S BEEN A SLICE.
Igroan as I splash through what feels like the hundredth puddle.
My shoes, despite being the kind that are supposed to be waterproof, are soaked through, and squish with every miserable step.
Ugh. What is with Mother Nature lately?
I’m starting to think she has a personal vendetta against me. And she’s in full will-smite-thee mode.
Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Wind.
The whole cursed ensemble.
I thought my day was going okay.
But nope. Never mind.
Clutching my messenger bag tight against my chest, I try to make myself a smaller target as gusts of wind threaten to knock me on my ass every time I move.
I bolt across the street as fast as I can with the elements raging against me and duck into a narrow alcove for shelter.
A drip of water falls from my head, splatting on my cheek followed by another. Perfect. I’m drenched. Again.
At least I had the forethought to wear a navy sweater this time. Way less see-through than yesterday’s wet T-shirt disaster. Too bad the thing now feels like it weighs fifteen pounds.
I blow wet strands of hair from my eyes and glance around, trying to get my bearings—
And there it is.
Fangerella’s Pizza.
The bright light is a welcome sight in the gloom of the stormy night.
Right. Pizza.
Do I walk in soaked again for another round of cheesy heaven, or go home and make sad noodles?
I check my phone—no new messages, and it’s almost midnight.
Maybe, maybe, Casey actually listened and went out tonight. Meaning I wouldn’t have to share.
An entire pie to myself?
There’s really no debate here.
Pizza it is.
Before I push the door open a flash of lightning brightens the street momentarily, and I see a figure standing across the street. All black. No features.
I blink, squinting in the darkness, but it’s gone.
A trick of the light, maybe because my brain is tired. But it leaves behind a sensation of being watched.
I push open the door and am hit with a wave of warmth and familiarity. The black-and-white checkerboard floors welcome me, but this time... the place is empty.
Eerily so.
For a Saturday night?
It’s odd.
Drunk people and pizza usually go together like misery and Mondays.
But now?
Only the low hum of the soda fridge and the faint crackle of the pizza oven keep the silence company.
Another flash of lightning streaks across the windows, and the thunder rolls in hard enough to rattle the glass.
I flinch.
Maybe... noods were the right move after all.
A strange sense of foreboding creeps down my spine, and I step back toward the door.
And that’s when I hear it.
“Back so soon, Daisy?”
I whip around with a startled squeak.
“I… uh… enjoyed the last one,” I stammer. “And pizza sounded good on the way home, in this weather, and since you’re so close to where I—”
Oh no.
Abort. Abort.
Did I almost tell the suspiciously hot, definitely-too-intense pizza man where I live?
He just stands there, smirking behind the counter like he heard it all anyway. Same spot as last time. Different suit, dark gray this time, but paired with a blood-red dress shirt that looks sinfully good on him.
Of course it does.
Because life is fucking unfair.
“Do you want the same as last time,” he says, his voice dripping slow and thick like honey, “or are you craving some new… experiences, perhaps?”
The dip in his tone at experiences practically sizzles.
For one unhinged second, I consider saying yes to everything.
All the new things.
Every possible experience.
Especially if he’s the one delivering them.
Almost.
But then another bolt of lightning flashes behind me, casting sharp shadows across his face.
My gut twists.
Something tells me his idea of new experiences is way more intense than mine.
Still, I ignore every internal alarm and step forward anyway. Like a damn idiot.
I set my wet bag on the counter.
“Surprise me.”
The words escape before I can second guess them. And oh boy, do they sound bold and way braver than I actually feel.
He tilts his head, studying me like he could peel me open with just a look. Like if he stared long enough, all my secrets would spill out and stain the floor.
“Surprise non-garlic pizza for Daisy, coming right up.”
He grabs a flattened piece of dough already prepped on the counter—like he knew I’d be back.
But that’s ridiculous… right?
A silly part of me is disappointed I won’t get to watch him knead it by hand again, forearms flexing, tattoos shifting with each roll.
I shove that thought aside.
Stop being so needy, Kal.
He pulls out several different sized containers, opening them one by one. With a flourish of his fingers, he begins sprinkling and peppering my pizza with different toppings. Some I recognize like mushrooms, but others I’m not quite sure.
If it’s as good as last night, I’m totally not complaining.
“So tell me, little Daisy,” he says casually, “what kind of work keeps you wandering the streets this late?”
He pauses dramatically to unbutton his jacket—slow, deliberate, one button at a time—then folds it and places it neatly on the counter, just like last night.
His dark gaze never leaves mine, and there's a teasing glint in it that makes me feel like he knows. Like he’s playing into the exact fantasy I tried not to have.
Not complaining.
I figure there’s no harm in giving him a vague answer.
“I work in customer service,” I say. “In hospitality.”
There. Answered his question without being too specific. I’m not sure I could handle him showing up at one of my jobs in broad daylight.
Although…It would make my days more interesting. Like the stud muffin today.
“Ah. So we’re not so different.”
He smirks. “I work in service too. Though my skill set leans... elsewhere.”
There’s something weighted in the way he says it, like it means more than it should.
But what the hell does that even mean?
I glance at his watch—an obvious luxury piece I only recognize because rich people love to flaunt them at the hotel. Ten grand minimum. And yet here he is, rolling up his sleeves to make pizza in the same meticulous fashion he has done everything else so far.
The tattoos on his forearms draw my eye again and this time, I catch ornate lettering forming a phrase in a language I don’t recognize.
I’m still squinting when the drip drip of my soaked sweater pulls me back to reality. The damn thing is weighing me down like a wet wool blanket.
I try to shrug it off—
Big mistake.
My arms get stuck mid-exit, tangled in damp fabric, and my foot slips on the floor. Again.
I brace for impact. Again.
But, again… it never comes.
“You really need to be more careful with slippery surfaces, Daisy Love.”
His voice is sharp this time, like he’s biting the words out. But honestly, I’m not sure because I’m still trapped in the soaked fabric of death.
“I—it’s just a little puddle,” I mumble from inside the sweater cocoon, wriggling helplessly.
He grips my waist with one hand, steadying me, and with the other, he peels the sweater off in one fluid motion like it’s the easiest thing in the world, freeing me from certain suffocation.
I blink up at him.
“Thanks,” I whisper, feeling ridiculous and a little breathless.
I try to tame my wet hair but freeze when I catch the look on his face. He’s staring, no, watching me with this intensity that makes my skin burn.
It’s not just the tank top I’m wearing now, black and mercifully less revealing than last time. It’s the way he looks at me. Like he wants to grab me and… I don’t know. Consume me? Maybe snap my neck?
Honestly, I can’t tell.
His thumb grazes the sliver of skin between my waistband and the hem of my tank top, and my stomach flips.
I’ve only ever seen this kind of look in two scenarios—someone’s horny, or someone wants to strangle somebody.
Unfortunately, (fortunately?) I’m no expert in either department.
I can’t seem to get a read on what he’s thinking at all.
Then, just as suddenly, he drops his hand, steps back, and shoves my soaked sweater against my chest.
Charming.
Okay. Maybe he does want to murder me.
Before I can listen to the little voice in my head screaming I should run, he speaks.
“You were out in a storm again. Alone. In the dead of night.”
Not a question. A statement.
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking just beneath the surface.
Is he… angry?
“Um, yeah. I finished my shift and got hungry on the way home.” I cross my arms. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Why is it that men always feel the need to tell me what I can and cannot do?
And why is it that I always end up having to explain my choices?
His tone has me feeling defensive now, and I really should consider leaving. Coming back was a mistake.
“It is my business when little daisies come looking for pizza and slip in harmless puddles. In. My. Establishment.”
He bites off each word, nostrils flaring, and suddenly my body recognizes danger before my brain can.
I step back. He steps forward.
“What did you agree to last night, Daisy Love?”
I blink. “W-what?”
I take another step back.
He takes a bigger one forward.
I bump into the counter behind me and now I’m effectively trapped. He steps into my space, boxing me in with his arms on either side of me. His body is so close I can feel the heat radiating off him and smell freshly baked pizza and… is that vanilla?
I arch away slightly, just to meet his eyes.
“Last time you were here,” he murmurs, gaze locked on mine. “What did you agree to?”
My brain short-circuits. It’s like it’s full of marshmallows, warm toasted marshmallows that smell like sugary vanilla, like the dangerous man taking up all my space.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
This close, I realize his eyes aren’t entirely black—there are flecks of blue swirling in them, giving them a more navy color, framed by those impossibly long lashes and perfectly sculpted pale eyebrows that are currently furrowed at me.
“Daisy.”
The nickname rolls out in a low, deep purr. Oddly, there’s no breath on my face. No puff of air. Just… sound.
Weird.
He leans in and drags his nose along the side of my face, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel his warmth. His chest moves as he inhales deeply and a low sound rolls out from deep in his throat. Almost like a growl.
I‘ve never known anyone to growl like that, but damn if it doesn’t make all those tiny butterflies take flight low in my belly and leave scorching flames behind.
Oh. My. Pizza.
Am I combusting?
Is this spontaneous combustion?
Will I die from mysterious pizza-induced arousal?
Before I can answer any of those questions, the smell of actual smoke cuts through the haze.
“Pizza!” I yell at his face like an idiot with no explanation or details.
To his credit, he reacts instantly—already at the oven, pulling out a now-blackened disc of what used to be a pizza, tendrils of smoke rising from the burnt husk.
How the hell did he move that fast?
He waves a towel to clear the smoke. I cough.
He sighs. “Sorry, Daisy. It appears I’ve ruined your pizza tonight.”
And just like that—I bolt.
“I should really get going anyway,” I mumble, clutching my sweater, turning toward the door like it’s salvation.
I don’t look back.
But I feel it.
His gaze.
Burning. Following. All the way to the exit.
And even when I’m outside, rain pelting my skin and night swallowing the street—
Even after I make it home, lock the door, and collapse against it, heart racing—
That feeling doesn’t leave.
I still feel watched.