“There’s nodeal,” I lie, because I can pinpoint the exact reason for my elevated mood, but it’s lame and stupid and I refuse to say it out loud in front of other people. Not when I can barely admit it to myself. “It’s a nice day, is all.”
Brit makes a vomiting motion. “Ugh. Gag me.”
“Let’s see if that cheery attitude lasts,” says Ollie. “They just seated the Dysons in your section, Violet. Wonder if they’ve ruined anyone else’s life recently.”
“Poor Marina,” tsks Jake. “RIP.”
“She didn’t actually die, idiot,” corrects Ollie.
Jake sighs. “She might as well have, Ollie. She might as well have.”
Rolling my eyes at their dramatics, I head over to the Dysons with a genuine smile and an upbeat attitude. Nothing phases me today. Not the five percent tip from a catty group of housewives. Not Mrs. Dyson sending back her martini because it wasn’t dirty enough. Not the young businessmen commenting on my ass or the middle-aged golfers asking me to smile more.
My good mood is unwavering.
When my shift ends, I head straight home to jump in the shower. After scrubbing off the day, I spend more time than usual blow-drying my hair before throwing on some comfortable clothes and, okay, applying a bit of makeup, too. The garage door rumbles at a quarter after seven, and for some stupid reason, my heartthud-thumpsin my chest, and my palms start to sweat.
Pull yourself together, Violet. You’re just watching a stupid show.
I head downstairs like it’s any other night to find Landon leaning against the counter, sorting through a stack of mail. For a second, I’m caught up. He’s dressed in his slacks and button-up as always, but his dark hair’s a bit rumpled today, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, offering a glimpse at his collarbone, and I stare at it for too long. It’s a nice collarbone.
“Excited?” I ask, too loudly.
He jumps, nearly dropping the envelopes in his hands, and shoots me a dirty look. “Jesus. Don’t do that.”
“Sorry. I thought you heard me.”
I bounce over to one of the barstools and take a seat, curling my legs up under me. His dark gaze focuses on me then, and I can’t help it. I toss my hair over my shoulder, running my fingers through the silky strands, purposely drawing his attention to the movement. His eyes linger on it longer than necessary, and a little thrill shoots through my chest. My hair’s a mess most of the time, dirty from a shift, sweaty from a run, or thrown up into a haphazard bun to keep it out of the way. It’s rare that he sees it blow-dried and styled, hanging in natural waves down my back, and judging by the way he stares, he likes the way it looks tonight.
“So, when should we order food?” I ask, which snaps him out of it. His eyes shift back down to the mail, and unless I’m mistaken, there’s a hint of color in his cheeks that wasn’t there before.
“Um.” He clears his throat. Sets the envelopes aside. “How about now? What’s the name of that pizza place?”
“Plant Power Pizza Pies.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he wrinkles his nose. “The name needs work.”
“It’s cute!” I disagree, and pull up the website on my phone.
Together we peruse the menu, which offers a vast selection of vegan pies. Leaning against the island, our shoulders are mere inches apart, and I’m close enough to smell what’s left of his cologne. It’s something expensive, I’m sure, with notes of cedar and vanilla, and I try not to be conspicuous when I take a deep breath in.
We decide on a Veggie Deluxe and a Hawaiian pie to share, both with a gluten-free crust, and the anticipation in Landon’s eyes is unmistakable as he places the order over the phone. Clearly, he’s been craving pizza since the night of the gala, even though he’d never say so.
Once our order is placed, he disappears upstairs to change into something more comfortable. By the time he comes back down, dressed in sweatpants and a fitted blue t-shirt that makes me stare longer than necessary, our food’s arrived.
I half expect him to demand we eat in the kitchen, but he surprises me by bringing the pizza boxes into the living room, where I have the show queued up on the mounted TV. We sit on the same side of the couch, pulling the coffee table close to our legs, and it feels surprisingly…comfortable. Like we do this a lot.
We each grab a slice of pizza, biting in, and I’m pleasantly surprised by the taste and texture.
“Well?” I ask, glancing over at him. “It’s no Domino’s, I know, but do we need to write a strongly worded Yelp review? Or is the pizza decent enough?”
He swallows his bite, turns to me, and says, “It’s great, Violet. Thank you for finding this place.”
And then, I kid you not, he smiles. At me. He smiles at me, a soft, genuine smile that lights up his entire face.
I swear, I nearly choke on my gluten-free crust.
My eyes stay locked on that smile, my lips part with a surprised breath, and don’t even get me started on my heart, which seems to be doing some sort of gymnastics routine in my chest.
