Page 141 of Delicious

Mateo had cocked his head and frowned. “I don’t want anything.”

“You’re here. You must want something,” I’d taunted.

“Yeah, I wanted to see if you’d come to your senses.”

“Nope. I guess that means we’re still at war.”

“Guess so,” he’d grumbled, turning on his heels.

Yep, the rules of war had been unclear. That was until Mateo renamed his pizza bagel, “The Best in Town.”

It was a subtle dig, but I couldn’t ignore it. I retaliated by sticking mini pennants in our pizza bagels, labeled, “The Original.” And “The Best Ever.” Hokey and childish? Yes. And I couldn’t wait till someone told him.

Sure enough, Mateo stormed in the next day to scoff at my pizza bagel and made a snide remark about the pennants. “Gee, I wonder if the owner ever played football.”

Fuck that guy.

Yet here I was, sneaking out of my own store to see what my unpleasant neighbor was up to now…because I kind of got a cheap thrill from winding him up. It was as if I’d tapped into a hidden power. Not as exciting as mind reading or an invisibility cloak, but knowing I’d needled my way under Mateo’s skin was oddly gratifying.

If I were completely honest, there was more to this feud for me. Try not to laugh, but…I had the attention of the hottest guy in town, the most popular jock in college, the goddamn star quarterback.

Time had marched on. We were adults, and he was still straight. Plus, he didn’t like me.Buthe noticed me.

Mateo peeked into my store window when he thought I wasn’t looking. He asked Amber about me, mentioned me to his cousin. Mateo Cavaretti was thinking about me. Often.

I liked it.

And today, I was feeling brave.

I spotted Mateo behind the counter, sporting his ubiquitous red-and-white checked shirt and a grungy white apron. The combo should have given “picnic with a pig” vibes but instead was annoyingly sexy.

That could have just been him.

Mateo had a great smile, damn it. His eyes crinkled, his full lips parted and snagged on one of his incisors, and his dimples were the stuff of teen magazines. He was the very definition of tall, dark, and dreamy. Always had been. I hated that the sight of him made my pulse skitter, but it fascinated me too. After all this time, Mateo Cavaretti still got to me.

“Ah, look who’s here. Business must be slow,” he greeted me as I approached the counter.

“Nope. The line is out the door.” Slight exaggeration, but we were busy enough. And so was he. There wasn’t anyone waiting for service, but almost every table was taken.

“Good for you. If you’re here looking for new ideas…don’t. I’ve decided to trademark everything in the store. If you steal any?—”

“Steal? Are you fucking joking?”

“Watch the language, Vilmer. This is a family establishment. My ma would smack you upside the head if she heard you talkin’ like that. We keep it clean here.”

I pointed at his messy apron. “Ri-ght…real clean. And who’s stealing from who? You bought a bagel kettle.”

“You made apizzabagel! Pizza!” Mateo picked up a pizza box and tapped it obnoxiously. “Look at this…established in Brooklyn, New York in 1900, established in Haverton in 1958. Same year the Dodgers moved to LA. That means we’ve been here for well over sixty years. You haven’t even been open sixty days, genius. So don’t twist my words or?—”

“Oh, look at you guys…getting along.” Amber breezed into the restaurant, waving at Vanni through the kitchen partition before nudging my elbow at the counter.

“He started it,” Mateo said.

She huffed. “Don’t you think this feud is kind of silly?”

“No,” we replied in unison.

“Well, it is. It’s petty and ridiculous and—” Amber paused abruptly, pushing an errant curl behind her ear as she cast a wary glance between us. “Oh, my God. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

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