I turn to face the living area again, and I’ve just set the waters on the coffee table when Kyle reappears, with our food in hand. “Where do you want to eat?” he asks. “In the dining area or here?”
“Here in the living area works for me, if it’s okay with you?”
“Comfortable is always better for me,” he approves, reclaiming the chair and setting the box down on the table, while I sit down on the couch, cautiously choosing a neutral spot that is close enough to talk to him but not too close for comfort. “We have napkins and paper plates,” he adds, “unless you require something fancier than paper?”
“Are you kidding? Paper can be thrown away. Paper is good.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, setting a plate in front of me, his green eyes becoming a shade paler with amusement. “I’m a single guy who doesn’t like dishes.”
“Have you ever been married?” I ask before I even think about what I’m asking.
“Never even proposed,” he says. “You?”
“Never even close.”
“Not even with Alvarez?”
“Michael isn’t a marrying kind of man,” I say, trying to shift things back to him. “Apparently you aren’t either. I mean, how old are you?”
“Thirty-five next month,” he says. “And I was in the FBI for a decade, most of which I was always undercover, and unavailable. I wouldn’t do that to someone, even if I’d have had time to even meet anyone, which I didn’t.”
“That’s actually honorable,” I say, thinking of the many dinner tables with an empty seat for my father. “It was hard on us when my father was undercover.”
“It is hard on the families and I swore I’d never have one as long as I was inside the agency.” He starts to open the box and pauses. “Damn. I didn’t order any drinks.”
“I got us waters, but they aren’t cold,” I say, hating that we were sidetracked before I found out more about his family. “I have diet Pepsi in the fridge but nothing else.”
“Water is fine by me,” he says, proving once again to be pretty easy to please, and eager to get to the food. “Are you ready for the best pizza of your life?”
“I’m ready,” I say, rubbing my hands together, saying to heck with the questions, and deciding to just live in the moment and enjoy a really good pizza. “Bring it on.”
He holds up his hands, like he’s preparing us both. “I’ve been traveling so much that it’s been years since I got to enjoy this piece of heaven.” He lifts the lid and then grimaces. “They burned it. I don’t fucking believe they burned it.” He drops the lid. “I’ve been eating at this place since I was a kid and never once have they burned my damn pizza.”
“If it’s been around that long, maybe they sold out or the owners retired?”
“Impossible,” he says, and then amends his words with, “Holy shit. The owner isn’t exactly a spring chicken. Maybe I’ve lost my favorite pizza place.” His brow furrows and he reaches into his pocket and punches in a number. “Is Adam there?” He listens a minute and grimaces. “When? Right. Well, it shows. I’m the guy from the Ritz. We just got our pizza and for the first time in twenty years of ordering there, I’m not happy. It’s ten degrees of hell it’s so burned. When can we get a new one?” He scowls. “You’re three blocks away. Yeah. No. Forget it.” He ends the call and returns his phone to his pocket. “You were right. Adam retired, and despite getting us our pizza in twenty minutes, he says it will be an hour for a new one.”
“You look so disappointed,” I say, trying not to laugh, and failing, which earns me a scowl this time. “I’m sorry,” I add, forcing a straight face. “Pizza is sacred. I’m joking around, but I get it. I love it. I need it in my life. Let’s eat it. It can’t be that bad.” I flip open the lid and stare down at the black edges of the crust. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. It’s bad.”
“But,” I say, holding up a finger. “The cheese and sauce is the best part. Let me get us some forks.”
“No need,” he says, grabbing the bag. “We have some.” He reaches inside, and hands me one, though he doesn’t look pleased about it. “It’s ridiculous to eat pizza with a fork.”
“Hey, hey,” I say. “I object to that statement. Really cheesy, saucy pizza is messy and a fork keeps me from embarrassing myself by wearing it.”
“Men do not think of such things,” he says, puffing up his chest. “That’s my Ricardo impression. You like?”
I laugh, imagining Ricardo’s mannerisms, and pointing my fork at him. “That was good. You should have been an actor.”
“I was an actor. That’s exactly what undercover work is, but now,” he holds his hands out, “what you see is what you get, and that’s exactly what I tell my clients. Unfortunately, your pizza is the same. I promised you the world’s best pizza and a man should not go back on a promise. A man says what’s he’s going to do, and then does it.”
“Per my mother, that’s actually true, but this wasn’t your fault.”