A Pizza My Heart

by Hunter, Teagan

  His full lips…and how kissable they look.

  His sage green eyes and how responsive they are.

  Or even his—

  No! No, no, no.

  I cannot and will not think of Foster while I’m naked in the shower. I’ve already thought about him enough this morning…and his lips. His totally kissable-looking lips. They’re—no!

  No more Foster and naughty thoughts. Because it’s Foster for crying out loud. Quit it, Wren.

  I push away all the wicked thoughts trying to flutter through my mind and rush through my routine. Stepping out of the shower—in record time, thank you very much—I reach for my towel, which hangs right beside the framed photograph of the night sky.

  Only my fingers collide with bare wall.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” I chant over and over, panic climbing up my throat.

  The one day I decide to do laundry before my run, and this is what happens.

  I’m stranded naked with Foster in my house.

  And because it can’t just be one thing…not only did I decide to do laundry this morning, I was in such a rush to shower away all the awkward Foster and I have managed to manifest in the past half hour that I forgot to grab clothes to change into.

  Today is so awesome already.

  I could ask Foster to bring me a towel and slip it past the door, but with how awkward we’ve already been together this morning, I can’t bring myself to go there.

  I push the curtain open and try to shake myself off as best as I can, because I’m apparently going to have to make a run for it. I mean, my bedroom is right at the end of the hall and he’s all the way on the other side of the house helping himself to some peanut butter.

  My feet sink into the soft rug sitting outside the tub, and a genius idea hits me. I peel the mat from the floor and wrap it around me, soft side in.

  Okay, you can do this, Wren. You’re covered. You’re quick. You got this.

  Carefully, I pull the bathroom door open and peek my head outside, looking down the hallway to ensure the coast is clear.

  I hear Foster rooting around in the kitchen and decide if I’m going to make a run for it, now’s my chance.

  “You can do this,” I encourage myself.

  Blowing out a heavy breath, I slide out of the bathroom and begin my escape.

  “I have so many questions right now.”

  “JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH!” I squeal, my improvised towel nearly falling from my body.

  I scramble to hold it in place as I spin around to find Foster standing at the end of the hallway, a grin covering his stupid full lips.

  “What the hell, Foster!”

  “What the hell, Foster? More like, What the hell, Wren? Are you wearing a bath mat for a towel? Did you not feel the breeze on your bare butt cheeks?”

  “First, don’t say butt cheeks. It’s weird. Second, I forgot my towel.”

  “Drip dry.”

  “I forgot my clothes too,” I grind out.

  “Why didn’t you just ask me to bring you a towel?”

  I can’t tell him I didn’t ask because I just spent way too long wondering what his lips taste like and acknowledging how good he felt standing between my legs.

  I can’t admit I spent several minutes standing naked in my shower thinking of how good he looked running on the beach this morning.

  I can’t tell him that, suddenly, after knowing him for half my life, I’m thinking things about him I never thought I would.

  “I knew you’d use it as a chance to make me do something embarrassing for you later on.” It’s only a semi-lie, because as I’m saying it, it truly does sound like something he’d do.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Birdie.”

  “Liar! Your lips totally just twitched as you said that!” I point to him. “You would have made me go buy you athlete’s foot cream or ball powder or a dildo or toilet paper and laxatives or something weird like that.”

  He falls into a fit of laughter. “What the hell am I going to do with a dildo?”

  “I don’t know your life, Foster! I’m not about to judge if you buy dildos, but I am not buying one for you.”

  “I can assure you, there will be no dildo buying. Maybe laxatives and TP—simple, yet so funny—but no dildos.”

  “Can we stop saying dildos? I’m naked under this rug and it’s making me all uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, I am very aware you’re naked under that thing.”

  I clutch the provisional towel tighter. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’ve seen my butt. We go half our lives without you accidentally seeing me naked then you’re back in town for all of two seconds and boom, nudity central!”

  “Do you want me to show you my butt to make this fair?”

  “Did you just offer to moon me?”

  “Kind of? And I don’t hear you saying no.”

  “I—”

  Before I know it, I’m staring at Foster’s very white ass. Though it’s pale, it’s not bad looking…minus the tattoo.

  He yanks his pants back up and leans against the wall once again, still grinning.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Yes, Foster, your pasty white cheeks have my lady bits tingling with desire,” I deadpan.

  “Pfft.” He brushes his shoulder off, clearly feeling darn proud of himself right now. “Knew it.”

  I tap my finger against my chin. “You know, I think my favorite part might have been the tattoo.”

  His eyes widen. “Fuck.”

  “An octopus, Foster? You have an octopus tattooed on your butt cheek?”

  “It’s a squid, thank you very much. And I thought we weren’t saying butt cheek anymore.”

  “You can’t, but I can. Why do you have a squid on your”—I pump my eyebrows—“butt cheek?”

  “Drunken dare from Porter. I forget about it all the time.”

  “I’m sorry, you forget about a squid on your butt? How? Does your wife never make fun of you for it?”

  “Did,” he corrects. “Did she, and no, she didn’t.” He squeezes the back of his neck again. “She, uh, she never saw it.”

  “But…it’s on your butt. How did she never see it?”

  He doesn’t say anything, instead grimacing my way, cheeks heating when it’s clear his confession dawns on me.

  She hasn’t seen his tattoo because she hasn’t seen his ass, which means she hasn’t seen him naked in a long time.

  “Oh.” The singular word drops from my lips in a whisper. “I see. That is an…interesting development.”

  He pushes off the wall. “Now that I have thoroughly embarrassed myself twice…what the hell is on your head and why do I think I’ve seen my grandma wear one before?”

  “Okay, rude. It’s a shower cap. Plenty of cool, young, hip people use them.”

  “Right, right. Whatever you say.”

  “Whatever.” I point down the hall. “I’m gonna go put some clothes on, maybe grab a real towel. I’ll be back out in five.”

  “Towel. Clothes. Good thinking. Get going.”

  But I don’t.

  We stand here, neither of us making a move to leave.

  I blink at him.

  He blinks at me.

  “Are you going to just stand there and watch me walk away with my butt hanging out?”

  A grin overtakes his lips. “That was the plan.”

  “Creep.”

  He winks and I groan.

  I don’t turn around, not wanting him to see my butt, and instead back down the hallway, still clutching the bath mat tightly to my body.

  He watches every step I take in an excruciating way.

  Eyes slowly trailing up my bare legs, pausing a bit too long where the mat ends. His eyes are steady and full of fire I want to play with.

  Drop the mat, I can hear them beg.

  I want to drop the mat. I want to drop it bad because watching him watch me makes my heart race in a manner I’m not familiar with.

  It’s erratic. Wild. Uninhi
bited.

  Pausing, I let him stare.

  It turns out I like Foster’s gaze on me a whole hell of a lot more than I ever expected.

  “What did you come back here for anyway?” I force myself to say, because if I don’t, I’ll let this makeshift towel slip right out of my grip.

  With a slow drag, he trains the fire on my own eyes.

  “Peanut butter.”

  That rasp, the raw want grating over each syllable…

  “Huh?”

  “Peanut butter,” he repeats. “You’re out.”

  “Oh.” Another whisper.

  I take a step away.

  And then another.

  His eyes don’t leave me, and I don’t mind.

  I’ve never walked so slowly in my life. I should move. I need to move. I need to get out of here. But I can’t.

  What the hell is happening with me…with us? Is it because of the whole fake dating thing? Is that why we’re acting like morons?

  Foster chuckles and clears his throat. I startle at the sudden sound, and it breaks the daze I’m in.

  He gives himself a visual shake and pastes on a fake smile. He might have been out of my life for the past four years, but I know a phony smile from Foster when I see one.

  “I think so,” he says.

  “Crap, I said that out loud, huh?”

  “Yep, but it needed to be said. We’re being dumb and that’s…well, it’s dumb. We need to pretend like I’m not going to woo you later.”

  It’s my turn to laugh, and my shoulders relax for the first time since he stepped foot inside my house.

  “You woo me?” I wave a hand. “Dream on.”

  “Oh, I’ll woo you all right. You’re going to be swooning when I’m done with you.”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Highly likely. It’s so weird how you always get words mixed up. We should work on that.”

  “Well, now that we’re dating…” I lift a shoulder. “We’ll be spending plenty of time together. We can work on it.”

  His long legs carry him toward me, a cocky grin playing on his lips.

  He doesn’t stop until he’s only about six inches away, and then he bends ever so slightly. I crane my neck to look up at him, feeling my own lips pull into a smile.

  “I’m gonna date you so hard, Wren.”

  Not fake date me.

  Date me.

  I don’t know if the phrasing was intentional or not, but either way, it makes my heart race in a conspicuous way.

  And I’m not sure what to do about it.

  Slice Eight

  Foster

  I saw her ass.

  I saw Wren’s naked ass, and I can’t stop replaying the moment in my mind.

  The last thing I expected when I turned the corner was Wren’s perky cheeks staring me in the face. Thinking she would still be in the shower—because again, I spent a lot of time at the Daniels’ place when I was younger and I know her routine—I was going to bang on the door and hassle her about only having a tablespoon of peanut butter left—which, let’s face it, is an abomination.

  I certainly didn’t anticipate seeing her full, round ass on display.

  Well, partially on display. Unfortunately, the mat did a good job covering most of the goods, but the bottoms of her cheeks were poking out in the most tantalizing way.

  I wanted to walk over and touch her, pull that stupid mat from her body and drink her in once and for all.

  I even took a step toward her, my hands itching with want. Desperate to feel her soft skin under my fingertips. To drag my lips between her shoulder blades. To cup that sweet, sweet ass in my hands and feel how full and firm it is.

  But—by some miracle—I pulled myself back and didn’t act like a complete fucking jackass.

  I forced words from my mouth. Then I made small talk to keep my boner at bay.

  It was painful, and also a little fun to see her all flustered.

  Then she got me flustered, the way she enjoyed my eyes on her. I saw it in her baby blues. She was relishing it as much as I was.

  Initially I thought, Good. About damn time we got on the same page.

  Then she spouted off the shit about us fake dating and I just couldn’t help but laugh.

  Right. Of course that’s what’s making her finally see what’s been right in front of her the entire time.

  It wasn’t me; it was just the idea of having a someone.

  Which is why I made sure to let her know I wasn’t going to fake date her. No way in hell was I doing that shit.

  Pretending to care.

  Pretending she’s mine.

  No.

  Not anymore.

  By the end of this little agreement of ours, Wren is going to know exactly how I feel about her, and I’m either going to lose a friend or gain something even better.

  I just hope the cards fall my way.

  I glance at the fitness watch that’s strapped around my wrist. I’ve been plastered to Wren’s couch for just about an hour now. Her client was early, and I don’t think she minded one bit. Although it gave her less time for her own routine—not that she needs the makeup she wears or needs to spend half an hour on her own hair, but whatever—I think she was still grateful to get ahead of schedule a bit, especially with the Mike incident putting her behind this morning.

  “Are you ready?”

  She stands in the kitchen wielding a pair of trimming scissors, a smock slung around her body.

  I notice immediately how different she looks in this moment compared to when she’s at Slice slinging pizza around.

  Here—even while holding a pair of scissors—she looks calm and collected. At Slice, she seems to be in a permanent state of frenzy, which I assume has to do with the fact that she has to deal with strangers all day long.

  You’d think since she works with strangers in both jobs it would be the same, but it’s not for her. Not even close.

  She doesn’t have to tell me this; I know it.

  I’ve known Wren long enough to know she’s full of quirks, and this is just another one.

  She opens and closes the scissors again, the metal shears sliding against one another loudly.

  “Chop-chop.” She laughs at her own joke. “I don’t have all day.”

  I push myself up off the couch then follow her through the kitchen and outside to the shed that sits just left of the blue abode.

  The walkway leading up to the bright orange door is a mix of mosaic and cement. Some spots are cracked and aged, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.

  “Cool, huh? Mr. Carlton’s late wife did it. I couldn’t imagine digging it up.”

  “It’s funky. I like it.”

  She pushes open the orange-trimmed glass door and we step inside.

  I’ll be honest, when Wren said she converted a shed into a salon, I was thinking boring walls, cement floors, old barn sink, and a chair, something workable yet sparse.

  Knowing her, I should have known better.

  The walls are cement gray, the floors covered in dark gray wood, and modern lights hang from the exposed ceiling. There’s a small waiting area with a loveseat, chair, and orange rug that matches the door nearly perfectly.

  It looks like an upscale salon, one I’d drop my mother off at for an afternoon of pampering.

  Bright and open and wholly Wren.

  Pride swells inside me.

  “Welcome to You Do You.”

  I laugh. “Clever.”

  “I know I am.”

  Impressed, I shoot her a grin. “You did it, Birdie.”

  “I did.”

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Good. Scary.”

  “Scary?”

  She nods, looking around the place, face full of love and trepidation. “Not only because all it would take is one off day and a bad review to crumble this place, but because Mr. Carlton could yank my space at any moment.”

  “I thought you were buying it.”

  “I want to buy it—badl
y, so much my heart aches for it. It was our intention at first, but then he got sick and his kids convinced him not to sell it yet. I’ve been on a month-to-month contract for the last six months. My nerves are shot from the constant worry about the possibility of losing my dream home and my dream job. I haven’t eaten properly or slept right in so long. It’s been hard. Winston doesn’t care. My dad doesn’t know. Drew wants to help but is hanging on to her own life by the tips of her fingers too. It’s a fustercluck.”

  I want so fucking badly to reach out to her, want to gather her into my arms and keep her safe like I’ve done so many times before.

  But I don’t.

  Too afraid.

  Again.

  “Whatever.” She sighs. “Enough sappy crap. I need to hustle.” She points toward an empty chair. “Grab a seat at station one. I’ll get a cape for you while you settle in.”

  I plop my ass down at the first station and my eyes follow her ass as she shuffles away, loving the way she sways her hips with confidence she’s never lacked, not even when she was a pimple-faced thirteen-year-old.

  Wren’s morning appointment clears her throat from the chair beside me, dragging my attention away from the heavenly scene in front of me.

  I recognize her from Slice. She was with the rowdy older man who was giving Wren a bunch of shit.

  “Good morning,” I say with a grin, as if I wasn’t just caught checking Wren out. “Blythe, right?”

  Her face lights up and she bats her dark lashes, loving that I remembered her name. “Yes. Good morning to you.” She looks me up and down with appreciative eyes. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Foster Marlett, ma’am.”

  “Ah,” she tsks. “The one who left. Yes, I remember hearing about you.”

  Part of me is happy to hear Wren’s mentioned me.

  The other part? Yeah, not really loving that I’m known for leaving.

  “I—”

  “Let me guess,” Blythe cuts me off. “You had to leave?” She rolls her pretty eyes. “Typical response with no real answer.”

  She tsks again, shaking her head, the foil making an irritating sound as the pieces rub together.

  I smirk at her, used to this reaction by now and amused by how sassy she is so early in the morning.

  Pointing to her foil-wrapped head, I ask, “What color are you going with?”