“What do you want?” the girl asks.
“Three slices of pepperoni for me, and…”
“Two sausage for me,” Stevie answers. “And two cherry sodas, please.”
“I ran out of plates. Want boxes?”
“Sure thing.” I tap my card on the reader and drop a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar.
She places the greasy slices into two to-go boxes, puts them in a bag, and fills up Styrofoam cups to the brim with dark liquid and thanks me.
“Want to eat outside?” I ask, taking the plastic bag of food.
“Sure.” Stevie grabs tiny packets of Parmesan cheese and napkins before grabbing the cups and following me into the parking lot.
Clicking the lock on my fob, I open the passenger door for her and help her in.
“Oh look, you can be a gentleman.” A smirk plays on her beautiful face.
I lean close. So close I can see her eyes darkening. “Oh, you want a gentleman? I can show you just how gentlemanly I can be.”
Before I make my next move, I shut her door, round the hood, and hop into my seat.
She has the drinks set in the cupholders with napkins sitting on the console between us. Pulling two boxes out of the plastic bag, I toss it into the back seat and set our culinary masterpiece between us.
“Not quite a French masterpiece, but I think this will do.”
I cheers my pizza to Stevie’s as I take a big bite. Fuck. There is nothing better than greasy pizza.
“An Italian feast.” Stevie winks at me as she tears off the tip of hers.
I sprinkle the cheese over the top of my slice before taking a slurp of my drink. “How’d you know I like cherry soda?”
Stevie turns, tucking her knees up on the leather of the seat. “I took a guess. It’s my favorite.”
“Good to know we have something in common.”
I won’t get into the shared trauma of our childhoods. We don’t need to bring that up on a first date. Maybe it’s why we connected so easily.
“Okay.” Stevie licks the grease from her fingers and sets her slice down. “Since you’ve never been on a real date before, how would you rank this one? How do you think you did?”
“Taking into account the failed French restaurant?” I grab a napkin and wipe my hands off.
She nods. “Yes. Even that. And the cheating.”
“You were outside the neon tape! It was a good hit.”
She wads up her napkin and tosses it at me. “It wasn’t in the spirit of the game.”
“That’s not how we count goals in hockey.”
Stevie gives me a fake smile, leaning over the console. “I know how I’m ranking this date. Zero out of zero stars.”
“Well, then that’s basically a glowing review.”
“Crap,” she mutters. “I meant five stars.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “No take backs. One hundred percent for the star pupil.”
