Page 222 of By A Thread

Ally

“Hey, Als. Table Three just got here. You can grab his order,” Jorge said over the whoosh of the exhaust fan when I walked in the back door for my Saturday shift.

In my opinion, Jorge’s Wood-Fired Pizza was better than George’s. Jorge was a jolly kind of guy who actually liked both people and pizza. The tips were decent. The pizza was way better. And I got a free meal and as many bathroom breaks as I needed with every shift.

Plus, the pizzeria was located an easy walk from Dad’s nursing home.

“Sure,” I said, pasting a smile on my face. I was still reeling from yesterday’s revelations. In Mrs. Grosu’s pink and yellow guest room, I’d added up the cost of twelve months of long-term care.

If I was going to pay Dominic back, I would have to start selling internal organs.

I still didn’t know what I was going to do. I needed to talk to him. But I didn’t know if I could survive seeing him.

His email last night had been short and oh so sweet.

To: Ally

From: Dominic

Subject: Getting to know me

I’m never getting over you, Ally. And I’m not going to try. My heart was yours from the pepperoni on.

Love,

Dom

My mind on pepperoni, I clocked in and then pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. It was a busy Saturday afternoon. Half the booths were already full. The other server waved to me while she keyed in an order.

But I didn’t wave back.

Because I couldn’t stop staring at Table Three.

Those blue eyes pulled me across the checkered tile floor like an industrial magnet.

Dominic Russo, looking more casual than I’d ever seen him in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ball cap, was staring at me. So sad, so hopeful.

My feet stopped in front of him, and my heart did its best to climb out of my throat.

Imissedhim. My body physically ached for him. The sound of his voice, the furrow of his brow, the smell of him after a shower, the heat from his body that always thawed me.

“Ally,” he rasped, then cleared his throat.

“Hi, Dom,” I said lamely. I wanted to break down and cry. I wanted to climb into his lap and let him hold me and convince me that everything was going to be fine now. I wanted him to make it all better. Somehow.

His gaze roamed me from head to toe as if he couldn’t quite believe I was here.

Remembering where I was, I pulled my notepad out of my apron and swallowed hard. “Do you know what you want?”

He glanced down at the unopened menu and then back up at me. “I was thinking I could go for a pepperoni pizza.”

Ouch. Direct hit on the ol’ ticker.

I put the pad back. “Sure. Is there anything else you want?”

He rested his hand on the edge of the green Formica table. His pinky was an inch from where my hand hung at my side. But sometimes an inch might as well be a mile. And I didn’t know how to cross it. I didn’t know how to ask him for what I needed. Because I didn’t know what I needed.

“There are a lot of things I want,” he said softly. His hopeful gaze found mine and held it. His pinky flexed, and for one glorious, perfect second, it brushed mine. My body lit up like a Christmas tree.