Page 43 of With a Cherry On Top

He clicks his tongue then turns back to Charlotte, whose eyes stick to me.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” she says.

“Seriously?”

She nods, and then he’s storming away, mumbling curses under his breath.

Though I don’t dare to look up, I can feel her gaze burning on the side of my face until she disappears again.

CHAPTER 9

More Than Just a Slice

Can we get pepperoni?”

The sidewalk glows under the amber haze of streetlights, the scent of melted cheese and dough drifting from the pizzeria up ahead as Sadie tugs at my hand.

I look down at her. “Andcheese?”

“So we have breakfast pizza tomorrow!”

“Fine.” I ruffle her hair before she swats my hand away, her giggles bubbling through the air like shaken soda. We usually get pizzas on Friday, but she insisted she wanted it a day earlier, and I’m too tired to cook dinner anyway.

“Dad! Stop it.” She pushes at the door with all the might her little body can muster, and when it’s still too heavy, I step in to nudge it open for her. She struts past me like she owns the place, chin high, pigtails bouncing. “Hi, Dave!”

“Hello, angel.” Dave, the grizzled owner behind the counter, looks up from where he’s stretching dough, flour dusting his forearms. His eyes shift to me, a knowing grin already forming. “Hey, Aaron. The usual?”

“And a pepperoni, apparently.”

Dave lets out a low whistle and grabs a notepad. “Wow. Trying something new today, huh?”

Sadie nods solemnly, proud of her major life decision. He jots it down, winks, and calls into the kitchen, “One cheese, one pepperoni!”

At the sound of clattering pans and Italian words drifting from the back, Sadie fists her hands in my jeans and tugs. “Daddy, sodas?”

“Go get them—hey,” I call when she starts hopping toward the fridge, already too excited. “Twosodas.”

She rushes off, her sneakers squeaking against the tiles as she pulls the fridge open with both hands. I glance her way—until something red catches my eye.

At the last table on the right, half hidden in the corner, sits Charlotte.

My stomach tightens.

She’s bent over a notebook, one hand gripping a pencil and the other resting on the page as she sketches. Headphones cover her ears, and she’s completely lost in whatever she’s creating.

I should look away. I should turn back toward the counter, keep my distance.

After what happened with herfriendtwo days ago, we’ve barely interacted. I didn’t see her at all today, and Beatrice didn’t seem remotely worried about her daughter skipping lunch and dinner. She ate, complained about the chicken being overcooked, and retreated to her office.

But I’ve been thinking about Charlotte nonstop. Wondering if she’s upset I ruined her “date.” If she’ll see Peter again.

My gaze flicks to the notebook, curiosity getting the better of me.

What’s she drawing?

I can’t see.

God, she’s so fucking intriguing.

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