Page 30 of A Pizza My Heart

I must play it cool, because he eventually shakes his head and gives up his intense stare-down.

“Anyway,” he continues, “that’s why. Sorry if I just assumed things, but now that you’re back, Wren can fill you in on all things her. Shit’s been kind of interesting in her life, starting with that new best friend of hers…”

He trails off, but the frustration in his voice is clear. I’m just not sure if it’s sexual frustration or the normal kind.

Interesting…

“We good, man?” he says.

Great. Now he’s worried he’s pissed me off.

I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.

I nod, shoving my own hands into my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “Yeah, we’re good. She just said some stuff tonight and it made me realize yet again what a mistake it was for me to leave, so I had to ask.”

“You left for a good reason though. You were just trying to do what’s right.”

“Sure, and look how that turned out for me.”

He winces. “The couch is yours as long as you want it.”

“I appreciate it, bro.”

And I do. I really, really fucking do. I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to head back east with no place to stay, and Winston didn’t bat an eye when I called him up.

I hitch my thumb toward my truck, the one thing I put my foot down on with Layla. It’s the same truck I’ve been driving since I was seventeen. I wasn’t giving her up.

“I’m outta here. Catch ya at home.”

He nods again, heading back inside.

I climb into my truck, turn over the engine, and head toward the one thing I need more than anything tonight.

Our spot.

* * *

“It was reallynice meeting you, Brooke. I hope we can get together again soon.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure thing, Foster. I’ll…um…I’ll call you.” She gives me a smile and pushes her chair in. “Have a good night.”

Feeling damn good about my third date of the week, I retake my seat and watch her walk out the door with a smile.

I don’t think that could have gone any better than it did. Brooke isn’t a teenager, and she doesn’t have one either.

She’s smart, nice, and cute as hell.

“Scale of one to ten,” Wren says, sliding into the recently vacated chair in a move that seems to be our new normal, “how do you think that date went?”

She attempts to act nonchalant about her question, but there’s a hitch to her voice that hints at her being a little invested in the answer.

“Why?” I narrow my eyes at her.

“You’re looking awfully smug right now, and I’m curious.”

“Well, before you pranced over here with your whole ‘you look smug’ thing, I would have said a ten. Now I’m doubting myself.”

She gives me a smile that says she’s only sort of sorry about that.

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