Page 8 of All's Fair in Love and Pizza
Fresh dill for CC.Code: fresh herbs for cream cheese.
I’d happily handed the book to Amber. She was the master of the kitchen and in marketing, while I was the name behind the brand. I was the money man, the taste tester, and the guy in charge of ambience. See, throwing a few pennants on the walls might pay homage to the town and remind folks that I’d once been one of them, but I wanted the space to feel…safe, somehow.
Cozy. Like somewhere you’d want to hang out before your day started or in between classes.
In the corner booth, head bent over a textbook, battered and torn backpack on the floor, out of sight, disappearing in the hiss of steam from the kettle, the hum of the coffeemaker, thethwunkof the bread slicer, thebuzzof conversation and laughter. A warm bagel with a side of cream cheese slides onto the table, a hand squeezes my shoulder, the smell of cinnamon, garlic, and kindness.
A safe haven. The calm in a storm of adolescent fears and insecurities. Maybe that was a tall ask of your average bagel shop, but it was an honorable goal.
But first, I had some boxes to unpack.
I tossed a few empty ones into the alley and headed inside to help Amber and our new hires, Krista and Connor, with some heavy lifting in the pantry. Fifteen minutes later, I dumped another six boxes outside and?—
“What’s all this?” Mateo groused, gesturing to the discarded pile of cardboard.
I did a double take, instantly irked that I noticed Mateo’s muscular forearms and the proud jut of his stubbled jaw. What was wrong with me? I’d been careful not to ogle him in college. That had more to do with self-preservation than a lack of admiration, but still. He’d been civil back then. Now…not so much.
“Those are boxes, genius.”
“Oh, really?” he deadpanned. “You gotta break ’em down,genius.”
“That’s literally what I was about to do,” I lied, pulling my keys from my pocket.
“With keys? Don’t you have box cutters?”
“Nope.” I smiled…extra wide.
Mateo cocked his head and sighed. “All right. Fine.”
He disappeared inside the pizzeria and returned a minute later with a box cutter.
I frowned, staring at the blade suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just being aconscientiousandthoughtfulneighbor.”
I didn’t miss the emphasis or the implication that a good neighbor would be mindful of competing menus, but I maturely decided not to take the bait. It had been a long day already, and the last thing I needed was to pick a fight with the grouch next door.
“Thanks. I’ll return them within the hour.”
Mateo grunted, then pulled a second box cutter from his apron and began breaking down boxes. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I didn’t need the help, but maybe this was Mateo’s way of calling a truce.
We worked in silence. It might have been strained if not for the cacophony of everyday life—traffic from the main road, salsa music from the studio behind us, someone singing off-key to a Bon Jovi classic, the clatter of dishware, competing conversations, and the list went on. The simple chore of collapsing cardboard was almost relaxing in the sea of noise.
Almost.
“This is a lot of boxes.” Mateo commented.
“Yeah. The deliveries should ease up now.”
“Opening soon?”
I nodded. “Next week.”
“Hmm.”
I stacked the last box, thanked him for his help, and in the spirit of peace offerings, I added, “Yeah, Amber just sent out invitations for the launch party. You should come.”
Mateo widened his eyes comically. “Why? Are you gonna spike my punch or something?”
