Page 5

Chapter 4

Carina

I head back to the drink station, giving myself a moment to reset.

It’s a standard setup—nothing fancy, but it gets the job done.

A commercial ice machine hums beside the soda fountain, the milkshake blender sits ready for action, and our ice cream selection, though small, is mighty.

The real stars of the drink station, though? Three massive five-gallon jugs of tea chilled in the fridge.

Unsweetened black tea. For people who enjoy suffering.

Mint green tea. For the health-conscious and, apparently, my sister Dina’s latest obsession.

And finally—the king of them all— sweet tea . For the people with taste.

I grab two tall glasses and start pouring, the ice clinking as the golden liquid fills them.

My sisters' voices carry from the open kitchen, where they’re busy prepping.

The kitchen is separated from the front by a half-wall with a plexiglass window that slides open when needed.

It keeps things running smoothly—orders up, pizzas out, no unnecessary chaos.

To the left, the pizza oven radiates heat, and just in front of it, a high counter allows us—me, my sisters, and the part-timers we hired—to serve up the good stuff without customers wandering into the workspace. The place is small, but we use every inch well.

We can seat over two dozen people, but let’s be real— takeout is where the real money is .

That’s why getting our website up and running for online orders is top priority.

Or at least, it should be.

Right now?

Right now, my brain is stuck on my new customers.

Especially the big one.

Horace. Who even names their kid that anymore?

I don’t know if it is his soulful brown eyes and imposing frame that have me all hot and bothered, but I am.

He isn’t doing anything. Just sitting there in jeans and a light sweater. Like it’s not twenty degrees outside.

I mean, come on. Who just walks around in freezing weather like it’s nothing?

That’s either peak overconfidence or some sort of supernatural heat source at work.

The old man with him is all warmth and kindness, the type of person who instantly makes you feel at ease. But Horace?

Horace is different.

Not in a he’s gonna rob the place kind of way—nothing like that.

No, it’s more like he’s holding something back.

Like there’s some hidden power there, coiled tight, carefully controlled.

He doesn’t look restless, doesn’t fidget or shift like some big guy uncomfortable in his surroundings. He simply is.

And I should be wary.

But if anything? I’m curious.

And worse? I’m attracted.

Two things I definitely do not need to be feeling, not with everything else I’ve got going on.

Shaking it off, I grab the drinks and walk them over to their table, setting them down without spilling a drop .

Thank. Fuck.

I’d say forgive the potty mouth, but I’m a jersey Girl and we all have them.

You can deal with it or get lost.

I’ve had enough of folks trying to make me over. And I am not interested in changing myself to suit anyone else’s needs.

That kind of behavior falls directly into the fuck no column of my internal to do list.

“Here you are,” I say, exhaling like I didn’t just go through a whole inner monologue over a man’s presence. “Have you decided?”

Uncle Uzzi gives me a warm smile. “Thank you, Carina.”

“My pleasure, Mr.…?”

“Please, call me Uncle Uzzi. Everyone does.”

“My pleasure, Uncle Uzzi ,” I say with a little nod, already liking him.

And then I glance at Horace.

He’s still staring at the menu, completely oblivious to the fact that I exist.

A tiny flicker of something— disappointment? —stirs in my chest before I shove it aside.

Don’t be silly. He’s not here for you.

I turn my attention back to Uncle Uzzi, who’s still smiling like he knows things.

“Everything looks marvelous, and it smells even better,” he says, patting his stomach. “I think I’ll start with the house salad and a personal spinach and ricotta pie.”

“Wonderful,” I say, jotting it down. “And for you, Horace?”

Finally, finally , he looks up at me.

“I’ll have a meat lover’s, please. Sixteen-inch pie.”

Classic. A man after my own heart.

“That’s a great pizza,” I say, my smile stretching across my face before I can stop it. “We make our own sausage and meatballs fresh daily. But can I tell you a secret?”

“What’s that?” he asks.

His gaze flickers, just for a second, to my mouth—like he noticed how wide my smile got. And then he nods.

“It’s even better drizzled with hot honey. Would you like to try it?” I ask, and I’m waiting for him to either comment on how gross that sounds or how good.

The seconds tick. Then finally, he replies, and his voice sounds impossibly deep when he does, sending shivers running through me.

“Sounds good,” Horace grumbles. “Can you make it well-done?”

“S-sure thing,” I say, scribbling it down. “I’ll be back in a few.”

I turn and head toward the kitchen, my feet mercifully cooperating and not betraying me by tripping over absolutely nothing , as they are prone to do.

Another victory.

I do not look back and am about to congratulate myself when I feel something stirring in my belly.

Butterflies? Or fighter jets?

…Okay, maybe just one glance.

Just one.