Page 70 of The Wedding Situation Romance

“I swear if we get shot,” he says, but then he stops as we walk inside. It’s a quaint place with brick walls and photographs in frames of families from Sicily. The floors are worn down black and white checkers, and the tables are black metal with red and white checkered vinyl tablecloths. There are two other groups of people there: a couple and a group of college kids. And it smells amazing.

“Alex, you got a customer!” A woman calls from the back, and a swing door flies open. A short, balding man in a flour and sauce covered apron appears with a smile.

“How can I help ya?” he asks with a thick accent.

“One large Neapolitan,” I answer. “And two sodas.”

“And a beer,” Reid adds. He rings us up and Reid pays, still visibly unsure about the place.

“Ten minutes,” Alex says. “We’ll bring it out to you. Sit where ya like.”

We walk over and sit at a small table off to the side, and Reid continues to look around. Then he looks at me and shakes his head.

“You need to trust me,” I say for the third time.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he asks.

“You are. But you aren’t convinced,” I say.

“I’m convinced we are out of our minds coming to a place like this at a time like this,” he says and I just roll my eyes.

Ten minutes later on the dot, Alex comes out with the pizza. He sets it down along with a stack of paper plates, two bottled Cokes and a beer, all of which he opens with a bar key stashed in his apron.

“Salute,” he says before walking back through the swinging door.

Reid watches as I take two slices and place them on the paper plates, handing him one. He picks up his slice, visibly judging the grease and the stringy cheese. But when he takes a bite, his expression shifts.

“Oh,” he says, and I take a bite too, melting into my chair. “Oh, wow.”

“What?” I ask with a grin, even though I know full well what. I just want the satisfaction of hearing him say it.

“Okay…I don’t know if I’m just really hungry or–”

“Just freaking admit it,” I cut him off. “It’s the best New York style pizza you’ve ever had, isn’t it?” I ask, taking another bite.

“It’s the best pizza I’ve had, period,” he states, diving back in. Four bites later, he’s reaching for another slice.

“I told you,” I say as I take a sip of my Coke.

“You did,” he nods. “And you were right.”

“What was that?” I ask, holding a finger up to my ear.

“I said you were right,” he echos and I giggle. “But seriously. How did you know about this place? I haven’t had pizza like this in years.”

“I stumbled across it a few years ago. And every time I am craving pizza, nothing else will suffice. It’s my favorite.”

“Your favorite pizza?” he asks, taking another bite.

“My favorite Italian dish…” I say, and he stops. Then he nods, and I smile.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “And you’re right. They don’t have anything like this at Alessi’s.”

“No, they do not,” I say, reaching for another slice.

“So I’m going to be honest with you,” he says, leaning back in his chair with his beer. “I have had pizza like this before.”

“Oh, really?” I ask. Then I wave my hand. “Let me guess. It was in Italy.”