“I will.”
The ride over was uneventful, marked mostly by Layla making grand plans for what we would do with all our tip money once it started rolling in. By the time we pulled up to a large Colonial in my neighborhood, she’d spent more than I figured we’d ever make, unless we planned to do this into our thirties. Little did I know that as soon as the door opened, our new endeavor would pretty much be over before it even began.
“Pizza’s here!” a voice called, and then there were footsteps, followed by the sound of a lock flipping. We both stepped back—Mac would have been proud—as the door opened, revealing a guy about our age, blond, with blue eyes and broad shoulders, wearing a U football jersey. When he saw us, he smiled.
“Do you need me to come pay?” a woman’s voice, older, called from down the hallway behind him.
“No, I’ve got it,” he replied, then stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. I took another step back, but Layla stayed where she was.
“Extra large half cheese, half ham-pineapple,” I said. “That’s fifteen-oh-nine with tax.” (“Recite the order and price first thing, even if they’ve already paid over the phone. It’s like a verbal contract they can’t renege on, plus they’ll know how much they should tip.”)
Although I’d spoken, it was Layla he was looking at as he pulled out some bills. “How much for the delivery?”
“For you, it’s free,” she told him.
“It’s my lucky day, then,” he said, peeling off a twenty and handing it to her. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you!” she said cheerfully, pocketing it as I opened the warmer and handed him the pie. “I hope you enjoy your lunch.”
“I would, if it meant you weren’t leaving,” he told her.
“Duty calls,” she replied. But I was pretty sure I saw her blush. “Pies to deliver, money to make.”
I turned around, hoping to give the signal that she should do the same. But of course, she was lingering, following me down one step but not the next.
“If I were to order another,” he said, his hand now on the knob, “would you deliver it?”
“Maybe.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Or it might be my big brother.”
“Fifty-fifty chance?” He smiled. “I’ll take those odds.”
To this, Layla said nothing, instead just following me back to the car. Once safely inside, engine on, I said, “You do realize you just broke, like, every one of Mac’s rules.”
“Do you know him?” she replied. “Like, from the neighborhood?”
“No,” I said flatly. He was still on the steps, watching us, as if he thought maybe she might get out of the car. I backed out of the driveway, quick. “Never seen him in my life.”
When we got back to Seaside, another order had been placed from the same address. So we doubled back across town, this time with Layla primping the entire way. More flirting ensued and another five was tipped, while I stood by feeling awkward, to say the least. This time, when we returned, Mac was waiting, the warmer in hand.
“Same address?” he asked. “Three pizzas?”
“They’re very hungry,” she said, reaching for it.
He pulled it back, out of her reach. “We’re running a restaurant here, not a dating service.”
“It’s an order, and I’m a professional. It needs to be delivered!”
He just looked at her. “Then I’ll do it. You’re done for the day.”
“Mac,” she protested, but I could tell he wasn’t budging. “We’ll see what Dad says.”
With that, she went inside. Mac said, “At least tell me the guy is her age.”
“He is,” I told him. I glanced at my watch. “You know, I can deliver that on my way home. Save you a trip.”
“No,” he said.
“It’s my neighborhood,” I said. “And he’s already had two chances to kill us, if that’s what he really wanted.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s how you’re selling it? Really?”
“Just give me the pizza.”
After hesitating another moment, he pulled a pen from his back pocket, then scribbled something on the back of the ticket. “My number,” he said. “You text when you’re leaving. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He handed me the warmer and watched as I put it on the floor in the backseat. Then I went in to say good-bye to Layla, who was pouting at a table, a strawberry YumYum in her mouth. She cheered up a bit when I handed over her half of the tips.
“We’ll really hit it hard next time,” I told her. “Big money.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving her lollipop at me. “Whatever.”
Back in the Arbors, I rang the bell, then waited for the door to open. When it did, it was the same guy, although he’d changed his shirt into a nicer button-down and put on shoes. When he saw me, he made no effort to hide his disappointment.
“Fifteen-oh-nine with tax,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful anyway. “Thanks for your business.”
He glanced at me, then pulled yet another twenty from his pocket. “Your friend,” he said. “What’s her name?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
He thought for a minute. “Okay. But if she wonders if I was asking about her”—he scribbled a number on the flap of the box, a name beneath it, then ripped it off—“give her this.”