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Chapter 2

Carina

“O h my freaking gah! I can’t do anything with this piece of crap website already!” I scream into my hands.

“Yo, Carina? Are you alright?” Dina asks.

Dina is short for Geraldine, but she always hates it when we call her that. And our dad’s name was Jerry, so that’s a no go, too.

She’s the sensitive one. Sweet and shy. Nothing like my no nonsense blabbermouth self.

Dina leans on the doorframe to the small office in back of the pizzeria we, along with our other sister, Marianne, just opened in the lobby of a posh new high rise in Newark, waiting for me to respond.

I wish we could afford to live in the gorgeous building, but after sinking every dollar we have into this place, I’m just grateful we aren’t out on the streets.

Yet.

Rent is due and our slimy landlord, Mr. O’Doyle, isn’t known for showing mercy.

Sure, he’s hinted he is willing to accept other forms of payment.

But I’d rather sleep in a box than submit to that creepy fucker. And I sure as heck am not telling Dina about any of that.

“I’m fine. Just having issues with the Wi-Fi,” I lie.

Truth is, I could only afford the free version of the software I’m using to host our website, Pizza Girls.

It isn’t a big deal, except I have us signed up for several delivery services that all hinge on the site working.

And it’s not.

Fuck my life.

“You want something to eat before we open?” she asks.

Dina’s apron is liberally doused in flour, and she’s so adorable with her big blue eyes and short curly hair. She wears her curves proudly, and I am in awe of her and MJ.

That’s what we call Marianne for short. Her middle name is Jeanne. I have no idea why.

I think our parents might have been trying to make us sound more American. They were both born in Italy and came here in their forties.

They never thought they would have kids, but then the three of us were born, one right after the other.

“Are you wearing yoga pants instead of the chef pants I bought?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

“So? I’m wearing the t-shirt,” she says.

I grin at her as she does a curtsy and spins for me.

The hot pink cotton shirt has Pizza Girls scrolled across the front in bold black script. Dina designed it, so I know she is proud.

That she has said t-shirt tied at the small of her back and tucked under to emphasize her waist is beside the point.

“You look fine,” I say.

“Fine? Damn. I was hoping for a cute at least,” she says, looking down at herself.

“Oh my gah! Yes, you’re cute. Go make pizza!” I laugh and wave my hand to shoo her away.

She giggles and skitters away like a squirrel hopped up on sugar. Freaking adorable.

Truth is, I wish I had half my little sister’s confidence.

But as my last boyfriend, Edgar the Asshole, always said, “No one wants to see all that unless it is tucked in and covered.”

I look down at my baggie chef’s pants and my own t-shirt that I wear two sizes big to cover my boobs. My bra size isn’t obscene, but it’s big.

My ex always hated it when I wore anything even mildly revealing.

I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks anymore, and really, I don’t.

But I guess some things take longer to get over.

His cheating on me?

No problem. Get out. Good riddance.

His constantly putting me down?

That’s proving harder to resolve.

Right now, I feel like I can never wear yoga pants in public.

Not with my wide hips and extra-large bubble-butt. But maybe someday I’ll get there.

Right now, I have bigger fish to fry. Like fixing our site so we can take orders or else we might go out of business before we even start.

It would be a real shame, too, because we make really good pizza.

MJ is the master chef behind our recipes.

I perfected our mom’s basic pizza dough and tomato sauce a long time ago, but it was MJ who found a way to produce it on a larger scale without sacrificing flavor or quality.

It is a lot trickier than it sounds.

But none of it will matter if we don’t get any customers.

If only I was better at technology.

I step away from my desk for a moment. It’s really in my and my laptop’s best interest at this point—before I throw it out the window or drown it in the nearest pitcher of sweet tea.

Don’t ask. I mean, okay, I know it isn’t a New Jersey kinda thing, but we went to Savannah when we were teenagers on a road trip and well, it stuck.

Dina and MJ are in the kitchen, busy prepping pies we’ll sell by the slice, making sure everything is perfect for our soft opening.

I push open the front door, inhaling deeply, ready for a moment of fresh air, and— oh my gah —almost swallow my own gasp when I come face-to-face with an old man in a pristine white suit and a literal mountain of a man beside him.

I freeze, blinking at them.

The old man looks like he belongs in some eccentric novel, but it’s the giant next to him that short-circuits my brain.

The sheer size of him is staggering—like someone took a regular man and accidentally hit the "supersize" button. I forget to stop walking, and because I am the very essence of grace, I plow straight into his solid, immovable chest.

“Ooh!”

“Whoa!”

Before I can embarrass myself further, two large hands clamp onto my upper arms, steadying me before I can go full human bowling pin. His grip is firm, warm, and annoyingly helpful.

I look up. And up. And up .

Oh no. He’s devastatingly handsome.

Like, star of a made-for-TV romance movi e handsome, complete with a strong jaw, unfairly perfect stubble, and deep, unreadable eyes.

My brain scrambles for words, but all I can process is big, warm, smells nice. Don’t send help .

“Goodness, so sorry, my dear. We didn’t mean to frighten you,” the older man says, his voice smooth and his tone amused.

His smile is the kind that immediately makes you want to trust him, maybe even invite him to sit with you so you can just confess all your deepest, darkest secrets.

I exhale, tension easing from my shoulders.

The old guy? Harmless.

The big guy? Still touching me.

I clear my throat, stepping back— or at least attempting to , but his hands are still there.

Immovable.

He’s looking down at me with an expression that might be concern, but also might be something else.

Hard to tell. My brain is still in malfunction mode.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, because I’m eloquent like that.

He lets go— finally —and I resist the urge to shake out my arms as if to rid myself of the residual warmth of his touch.

Not that I even want to.

Nope.

No, sir.

Because the truth is, I’m attracted to the big guy.

My nipples are hard as rocks and I’m going to need new panties any second now.

Thank fuck I wore my black chef’s pants and not the white ones. That would’ve been bad.

“So,” I say, attempting a casual, totally normal smile. “What can I do you for—um, I mean, for you? What can I do for you?”

And just like that, the old man’s grin widens, the big guy’s eyes twinkle in a way that should be illegal, and I have the distinct feeling my day just got a whole lot more interesting.