“You got to stop at Buc-ee’s?” Mom says, eyeing me. “Next time I’m riding with you, Ave. This one wouldn’t stop for anything.”
“I would have,” I defend. “I just wanted to beat the movers here.”
Shep takes that as his cue to head back out to the moving van. “We’ll get to work,” he says.
We spend the day working around the movers. The beds and furniture are placed, and everywhere you look, boxes are stacked or open, or empty and collapsed.
“I need pizza,” Avery announces. “Feed us.”
“I planned to,” I tell her. “I’ll go on a run. What do you want?”
“Anything but chicken,” she says. “Chicken does not belong on pizza.”
“I thought that was pineapple,” I tease.
“Ask the owner what their best seller is,” Mom says. “That’ll be the one.”
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my keys off the island. “One best seller and one half cheese, half pepperoni. And I'll grab one for the movers while I’m at it. I’ll be right back.”
In my van, I search maps for pizza places near me. The two top listings are Gino’s Pizza and the Pizza Den. I’m a sucker for places with Italian names, so I’m about to head to Gino’s.
One glance at myself in my rearview mirror has me picking the Pizza Den. I look like a woman who drove across the state and spent the day riffling through boxes. My wavy brown hair is sticking out from my ponytail in unruly wisps.
I pull up in front of a row of shops on one of the side streets just off the main downtown. I park the van in front of the shop. The smell when I open the door makes my stomach growl.
Several people are standing around the counter waiting for to-go orders. A woman is paying at the register. A few other families or groups of friends are eating at the booths along the walls and the tables near the front window.
A man steps up to grab seven boxes of pizza from the employee behind the counter. He’s tall and built, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and a body that demands attention. He’s all muscles and hard edges.
I clear my throat and glance up at the overhead menu, waiting my turn to place my order. My eyes drift back to the man with tousled light-brown hair and a dusting of stubble softening his otherwise chiseled jaw. His expression is confidentand calm, not stern, but definitely not warm. His eyes, though. They look like they’re seeing everything—even things that aren’t here and now.
“That’s the whole order, Greyson,” the worker at the counter says to the man.Greyson. The name fits him. “And Dustin asked for garlic knots.” The worker places a smaller box on top of the stack of pizza boxes.
Greyson lifts the stack with one hand, balancing them on his arm. In a deep, serious voice, he says, “Thanks, Tommy.”
I’m standing near the door, so I step out of the way to let Greyson pass. He stops short a few feet away from me when our eyes meet. His gaze narrows, his brow drawing in. Then, as if shaking off a thought, his face goes neutral and he walks by me, glancing over at me one more time before heading out the door. A tingle runs up my spine when our eyes connect, and he looks away.
I watch him walk to a Jeep, setting the boxes in the back seat. He has the kind of face that makes him feel familiar—sort of like how Waterford invoked memories of Maryville the first time I saw it. He reminds me of someone. I just can’t remember who.
I’m exhausted and starving. It’s entirely possible that everything feels and looks familiar at this point. Besides, it’s Tennessee. If you’ve seen one small, historic town, you’ve seen them all. That’s true, isn’t it?
Still, something prickles across my skin. I rub my hands down my forearms.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the worker behind the counter asks.
“Oh. Yes. Um …” I step up to the register. “What’s your best seller?”
“Besides cheese and pepperoni?” the kid asks. “I’d say that’ll be our Nashville hot chicken pizza.”
I chuckle. Of course it’s chicken.
“Well, give me one pepperoni, one half cheese, half pepperoni … and one of The Works.”
“You got it. Name for the order?”
“Hallie.”
“New to Waterford?” he asks. “Or just visiting?”
