WILLA
A soft knocksounds on my front door, and I smile. “Ooh, Barney. Our food is here.” Well,myfood is here. Barney can’t have pizza. Lifting his furry, eighteen-pound body off my lap, I reach for my wallet to pay the tip and say “Just a second” at the same time.
Flipping the deadbolt latch, I peek through the security peephole and gasp. “Hudson?”
“Yes. It is I.”
Why does he sound like he belongs in a regency romance novel? On my tiptoes, I’m still staring at the man through the tiny hole. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Oh. Boy.
Slipping the security chain from its perch, I turn the knob and open it wide. “Come on in.” As he steps through, I glance down at myself. I changed out of my pretty dress into some old stretchy shorts and a tank top. It’s hot outside, and since there’s no air-conditioning in my apartment, I’ve got to rely on less clothing, my window, and a fan to keep cool. I hope Hudson doesn’t melt in his silly plaid jacket.
As soon as he steps over the threshold, the delivery kid appears at the door asking, “Did you order pizza?”
I blush, realizing that Hudson will now see how I eat. I ordered a large because after today I felt I deserved it. “I did.”
Taking the pizza from the delivery kid, I pull a five-dollar bill from my wallet just as Hudson slips the guy a twenty. “Thanks, man.”
“Wow. Cool.” The delivery guy is gone before I know it.
“Hudson, I paid online. I was just going to tip the guy. Besides, you didn’t need to do that.”
Ignoring me, Hudson’s too busy sniffing the box. “What kind did you get?”
He’s going to hate it. “It’s, um, artichoke, salad peppers, green olives, and mushrooms.”
“Interesting.” Setting the box onto the counter where Barney eats his dinner, he flips open the lid. “Looks pretty good.” Pointing down, he asks, “Mind if I have a slice? I’m starving.”
“No, go right ahead.” Part of me isn’t happy about sharing, but the logical side is glad I’ll have some help eating it. Otherwise, I’ll just regret it when it’s all gone.
Hudson opens one of my two upper cabinets. When he finds the plates he’s looking for, he retrieves one for each of us. He places a couple of slices on each plate, then hands me one. “Let’s sit. We need to talk.”
“All right.” My appetite is suddenly gone. It could be due to the words “we need to talk” or it could be that I don’t feel all that comfortable eating pizza in front of this man.
No matter, I follow him over to the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?” I glance back at my tiny kitchen. “I’ve got water. Tap water.”
“Water would be great, thank you.”
Back in the kitchen, I grab the plastic ice tray and drop a cube into the bottom of a glass. Filling it with water, I return to the living area. “Here you go.”
His mouth is full, but I know he thanked me again.
“Do you like the pizza?” No one likes my pizza. My dad used to–– No. I can’t think about my dad again today. Hudson hates crying, and any more thoughts of my poor father will only result in lots of those.
Swallowing, he nods. “I do. I’ve never had green olives or salad peppers on a pizza, but it’s good. It gives it a tangy sort of acidic taste which pairs nicely with the savory sauce.”
I’m not sure what the heck he’s talking about—I just like it.
“You a vegetarian?”
I snort. “No, I just like this pizza.”
“Good to know.”
Is it?
