“Well, I didn’t order the pizza,” I defend, shifting uncomfortably and closing my laptop as everyone’s eyes are pinned to mine like I’m about to start a fucking flash mob or something. “Do you know who it’s from?”
“No,” the boy states and moves toward me while pulling out enough food to feed ten people.
“This is a prank.” I laugh nervously and slide my laptop alongside me. His dead eyes meet mine again. “I could never eat all this.”
“I…don’t…care,” he confirms, plops the hot food on my lap, turns on his heel with his pizza bag in hand, and exits the room.
I’m literally sitting with a mountain of hot food on my lap, and everyone is fucking staring at me. No one is smiling. No one is looking like they get the joke. They’re all gawking at me and thinking, what kind of fat loser has pizza delivered to herself while waiting for an oil change?
Awkwardly, I get up with my boxes of food and move over to a high top table that’s out of center stage, but I can feel everyone still watching me. My stomach is roiling with so much humiliation, I’m not even hungry anymore.
I see the receipt stuck to the top of the chicken wings and tear it off for a closer look. At the bottom of the credit card transaction, I find a name I know all too well:
Hannah Martin.
Hannah is the queen of romantic comedy and was the very first author friend I made in the independent publishing community. We both had breakout books around the same time and were so new in the industry, we kind of clung to each other for survival. She lives in Florida with her husband and three kids, but I see her a few times a year at book signings. We talk almost every day about book crap and everything that amuses us. Hannah was the one to push me to keep going back to Tire Depot, so I never saw this coming.
I shakily grab my phone out of my back pocket and type out a text to her.
Me: You fucking whore.
Hannah: What?
Me: You know what. This pizza!
Hannah: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Me: Your name is on the receipt.
Hannah: CRAP! I thought it’d take you at least ten minutes to figure out it was me.
Me: Yeah, crap! I am fucking mortified, you idiot. I’m trying to keep a low profile, but that delivery guy probably had to go talk to the guys at the counter to figure out where I was. I am humiliated, and you are the worst! Don’t you have your own book to write? How do you have time for this?
Hannah: I’m shaking so hard with laughter, it’s difficult to type.
Me: I had my earbuds in, so I didn’t hear him calling my name. He listed off the food you bought for a football team and then handed it all to me—the chubby ginger creeping in the corner. Goddamn you!
Hannah: Is it good, though? I got you extra dipping sauces for those parm breadsticks. That cost extra, you know. I ain’t cheap.
Me: I can’t eat it because my mortification has killed my appetite! But…this does give me an excuse to try out the fountain pop machine, so…silver lining.
Hannah: My eyes are wet from laughing so hard.
Me: Yuck it up, yucky yuckerson. God, I was in the middle of writing an anal scene, so I was super in the zone too…it’s no wonder I didn’t hear him.
Hannah: STOP. MY STOMACH IS KILLING ME…ON ACCOUNT OF ALL THE LAUGHING.
Me: Well played, whore. Well played. And it’s the burn that keeps on burning b/c my inner cheap girl will NOT let me throw these leftovers away. So I’m going to have to carry them out of here.
Hannah: Oh, I was counting on that. Want to hear something horrible?
Me: What?
Hannah: I was going to do a sub delivery, but then I decided the pizza boxes were more embarrassing.
Me: You’re dead to me.
Fifteen minutes later.
Hannah: So I’ve been picturing you sulking and refusing to eat for the past fifteen minutes and then finally giving up and eating it anyway. Am I close?
Me: OMG, it’s like you’re here with me. That’s exactly what I did. This food is delicious btw. But I’m still not thankful.
Hannah: But you’re always welcome. ;) Best $53 I ever spent.
After finishing my lunch, I tuck the pizza under the chair in the corner where I like to sit in the afternoons because it’s close to the outlets and attempt to go back to writing. Honestly, I’ve had a full lunch, so that should gain me an extra three hours here today.
My hero is just busting out the lube when I notice a large frame standing peculiarly close to me. I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me.
How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here.
“Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero.
“You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap.
“I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.”
“Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall.
“I’m not really sure.”
“Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon!
I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.”
“A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?”
My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.”
“Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.”
“Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and now that he’s eye level with me, I get a full-on assault of just how truly handsome he is.
Yesterday, I was such a flustered mess that I didn’t really have the time to take him in. Now, I can’t help but ogle his entire face. His skin is tanned and damn near flawless. His jaw is square and defined, even beneath that sexy dark, five o’clock shadow. His blue eyes are like sapphires and framed by the thickest, blackest, most mesmerizing lashes I’ve ever seen. His lush, ruddy lips seem to rest naturally in a sort of puckered state.
Like his default face is a smolder.
I got stuck with resting bitch face.
“My name is Mercedes,” I reply and then frown. Why did I give him my pen name instead of my real name? Well, I guess at least this way he won’t be able to look up my file and see how many cars I’ve brought in over the past few weeks. Plus, sometimes it’s more fun to be my alter ego rather than boring Kate Smith, who often forgets to put on deodorant.
“That’s perfect. You’d look damn fine in a Mercedes,” he murmurs, his deep tone sending shivers over my skin.
“And what do you drive?” I ask even though I already know the answer.
“An Indian motorcycle.”
I shake my head. “Why am I not surprised?”
He smiles, his teeth a brilliant white, and I sort of like that one sticks out a tiny bit farther than the others. “Am I that predictable?”
“More predictable than my old lady car,” I reply with a wink.
He smiles again, and I get those butterflies in my stomach that I painstakingly try to describe in different ways with every book I write. Stomach flips. Stomach somersaults. Fireworks in my belly. Wait, that last one is terrible, it sounds like diarrhea.
“Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Mercedes. I’m Miles Hudson,” he says, taking my hand in his and shaking it gently. His palm is warm and dry and so frickin’ huge, I have to squeeze my thighs together because I feel like I may start emitting a fertility musk like an animal. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”