Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Besides if there was a pizza-bagel war happening, I needed to know the rules.
I’d assumed Mateo’s initial strategy would be to ignore me until he had a competitive product, and I’d been right.
Vanni had spilled the beans to Amber and me about the new kettle they’d purchased. He’d said it was bound to be a write-off, but a week later, Boardwalk Pizza featured their first ever pizza bagel…a basic marinara, cheese, and pepperoni number.
I’d wanted to buy one, but Mateo was at the counter that day.
Our conversation had gone something like this:
Me, tapping the glass. “I’ll take one of those.”
Mateo, shaking his head, a feral gleam in his eye. “I’m not selling you a pizza bagel. Sorry, champ.”
“How mature of you. I’ll pay double.”
“No.”
“Triple.”
Mateo had turned away and returned with a slice of their pizza of the day. “Take it and beat it. Next in line, please.”
Fucker.
And yeah, I’d wanted to grab his hair and kiss the fuck out of him.
Vanni had brought me a pizza bagel an hour later. On the house. “Sorry about that. Teo’s a hothead. We can use an expert opinion, but I gotta tell you, I think these are okay. Not as good as yours, but still decent.”
I’d agreed. So had Amber, who’d laughed at the idea of our pizza-bagel war.
“It seems more like two jocks pissing on each other’s cleats for funsies. Guys are so weird.” She’d snorted.
True. But you know what? Mateo had started it, so when he’d slipped in the door to clandestinely check out our business, I’d given him a taste of his own medicine.
“Your money is no good here,” I’d said in greeting, a phony grin pasted to my mug. “Anything you want is on the house.”
Mateo had cocked his head and frowned. “I don’t want anything.”
“You’re here. You must want something,” I’d taunted, staring at his mouth.
“Yeah, I wanted to see if you’d come to your senses.”
“Nope. I guess that means we’re still at war.”
“Guess so,” he’d grumbled, turning on his heels.
Yep, the rules of war had been unclear. That was until Mateo renamed his pizza bagel, “The Best in Town.”
It was a subtle dig, but I couldn’t ignore it. I retaliated by sticking mini pennants in our pizza bagels, labeled, “The Original.” And “The Best Ever.” Hokey and childish? Yes. And I couldn’t wait till someone told him.
Sure enough, Mateo stormed in the next day to scoff at my pizza bagel and made a snide remark about the pennants. “Gee, I wonder if the owner ever played football.”
Fuck that guy.
Yet here I was, sneaking out of my own store to see what my unpleasant neighbor was up to now…because I kind of got a cheap thrill from winding him up. It was as if I’d tapped into a hidden power. Not as exciting as mind reading or an invisibility cloak, but knowing I’d needled my way under Mateo’s skin was oddly gratifying.
If I were completely honest, there was more to this feud for me. Try not to laugh, but…I had his attention. I’d kissed the hottest guy in town, the most popular jock in college, the goddamn star quarterback.
Mateo might not like me. But he noticed me. And he wanted me.
Okay, he might not admit that, but…those sparks, remember?
Mateo peeked into my store window when he thought I wasn’t looking. He asked Amber about me, mentioned me to his cousins. Mateo Cavaretti was thinking about me. Often.
I liked it.
And today, I was feeling brave.
I spotted Mateo behind the counter, sporting his ubiquitous red-and-white checked shirt and a grungy white apron. The combo should have given “picnic with a pig” vibes but instead was annoyingly sexy.
That could have just been him.
Mateo had a great smile, damn it. His eyes crinkled, his full lips parted and snagged on one of his incisors, and his dimples were the stuff of teen magazines. He was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Always had been. I hated that the sight of him made my pulse skitter, but it fascinated me too. After all this time, Mateo Cavaretti still got to me.
“Ah, look who’s here. Business must be slow,” he greeted me as I approached the counter.
“Nope. The line is out the door.” Slight exaggeration, but we were busy enough. And so was he. There wasn’t anyone waiting for service, but almost every table was taken.
“Good for you. If you’re here looking for new ideas…don’t. I’ve decided to trademark everything in the store. If you steal any—”
“Steal? Are you fucking joking?”
“Watch the language, Vilmer. This is a family establishment. My ma would smack you upside the head if she heard you talkin’ like that. We keep it clean here.”
I pointed at his messy apron. “Ri-ght…real clean. And who’s stealing from who? You bought a bagel kettle.”
“You made a pizza bagel! Pizza!” Mateo picked up a pizza box and tapped it obnoxiously. “Look at this…established in Brooklyn, New York in 1900, established in Haverton in 1958. Same year the Dodgers moved to LA. That means we’ve been here for well over sixty years. You haven’t even been open sixty days, genius. So don’t twist my words or—”