Page 20 of A Pizza My Heart

“What did Ijusttell you about your horniness?”

“Sorry, but I refuse to let this one go. That dude ismajorlyhot.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Bull,” she shoots back, calling me on my crap as usual.

Itisbull.

To say I’ve noticed just howhotFoster has become over the years is an understatement. I noticed…and then took some time to notice some more during the two hours he spent here last night trolling around the place and “fixing” things. A loose screw here, a lightbulb there. He even stayed past close to help refill the shakers on the tables.

I noticed him every time I had to walk by him, every time he laughed a little too loud in that typical Foster way.

Which is weird because Inevernoticed Foster before.

He was always there; I neverhadto notice him.

I shouldn’t pay any attention to him now though. I wasn’t lying yesterday when I told him I was upset he left. I was royally pissed the fuck off, and though I’m happy he’s back, I’m still mad about him leaving…and worried he’ll do it again.

“I swear,” Drew’s voice interrupts my thoughts, “if I wasn’t with Chadwick, I’d beallover that. Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew such a stud, Wren? I’m so disappointed in you.”

I groan. “You sound exactly like every friend I ever had in high school.YouknowFoster Marlettandhe practicallyliveswith you—want to braid each other’s hair and be best friends? How about we have a sleepover atyourhouse?” I roll my eyes. “It was always the same crap over and over again. He’s notthatgreat.”

“I don’t know, Birdie—have you met me? Iampretty awesome.”

A startled squeak escapes my lips as I whirl around to find Foster standing directly behind me, a smirk lining his lips. His bulging arms are crossed over his chest, hip resting against the end of the counter.

I gulp—loudly,I might add. “Oh, uh, hey Foster. How goes it?”

“It goes, Wren.” He’s still smirking, and I want to reach over and wipe it off his face. “How goes it with you?”

“It goes.”

“Can we discuss the fact that you call her Birdie?” Drew pipes up.

“We cannot.”

“Can.”

“Not!” I shout over Foster’s interruptions. “We arenotgoing there.”

“I think we should. You just rambled on and on about how horrible I am. I think we can spare a minute or two to tell Drew”—he sends a stupid, charming smile my best friend’s way—“it is Drew, isn’t it?”

She nods, captivated by him.

I roll my eyes again, and I can see in his eyes how much my irritation pleases him.

Jerk.

“We have a moment to tell Drew about that time you thought you could fly because you were named after a bird. About how you fashioned together these crude-looking wings from cardboard and feathers—god, your mom waspissedyou tore up her pillows—and then proceeded to jump from our tree house. You know, the one that was eight feet off the ground…when you werethirteen.” He looks over at Drew again. “Old enough to know it wouldneverwork.”

I cross my arms, throwing daggers his way. “You and Winstonsworeit would work.”

“You believed us.”

He pushes off the counter, sauntering over to me with that same confident swagger that made all the girls swoon in high school. He leans down toward me, bringing us closer in height, a difficult feat since he’s well over six foot and I’m barely pushing five-five. His eyes meet mine, and I never realized before how green they are, how much they remind me of that grassy knoll we used to race up and down every day in spring.

Why do I smell sunshine and pine?