“Hi, Ryan,” I interrupt, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re just popping your pizza in the oven. We’ll send free breadsticks and drinks, whatever you’d like. Sorry for the delay.”
“No, don’t worry—”
I can’t stop interrupting him. My mouth continues to speak. “How about some extra cheese?” I volunteer. “I love double cheese.”
I don’t know why I tell him this, but it seems to work because after a moment of silence, he makes a noise of agreement. “Extra cheese?”
“I’ll give you a hundred Parmesan packets.”
“Three would be fine.”
“Three it is.” I hang up, and then I pound my head into the table. I don’t even know why he actually called. “I choked,” I whine to Angela. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
I continue to moan to Angela as she makes the pizza, begging her to take the delivery.
“Do it yourself, Andi,” my dad says. “For some reason, he seems to like you. No man leaves a two-hundred-dollar tip because they had a bad experience.”
Maybe Ryan is buying my silence, I think to myself. He is famous, after all. His face is plastered on television, in the papers…maybe he doesn’t want word getting out about him banging in front of the delivery girl. Then again, I’m not sure that’s anything to be ashamed of, especially the way his partner was moaning.
“Fine, Dad, but I get to keep the full tip this time.”
“Mr. Peretti to you,” he replies. “You’re at work, Andi. Act professional.”
“Fine, Mr. Peretti.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
I grab the pizza from Angela and stomp out the front door. “Bye, Dad,” I say. “I’m never sarcastic.”
“Andi!” My dad’s warning hits the door as I rush to the car. “That sounds a helluva lot like sarcasm to me!”
Despite my complaints about delivering the pizza, somewhere in my stomach, tiny little butterflies begin to stretch their wings. I hate to admit it, but I’m excited to see Ryan again, which is ridiculous since he was bumping lovelies with another woman last time.
My phone rings before I’m even out of the driveway. “Hurry back, Andi. You’re the only delivery girl scheduled for tonight. No dangling around.”
“Dawdling.”
“Are you being sarcastic with me?”
“No,” I say. “It’s dawdling, not dangling.”
“Whatever it is, don’t do it.”
No problem. I don’t have a show tonight, and I could use a cash infusion. Scratch that—I might have a show tonight, but only if Ryan is putting on act II of his performance.
I drive across the city, and traffic is lighter than normal—either that, or the thoughts of Ryan opening the door in nothing but that towel distract me for the entire journey. I arrive in no time at all, and by the time I park, my girl parts are tingling like a pack of Pop Rocks.
I flip the mirror down as I turn onto Ryan’s street and check out my appearance. The sight of my face shocks me straight back to reality. In my fantasies, I’m not wearing my red Peretti’s Pizza polo shirt. Nobody looks irresistible in a Peretti’s Pizza shirt, not even Angela, and she has a rack a Playboy Bunny would envy.
Maybe I have an extra tank top in my back seat. I often keep a black one there because it’s simple to throw on with jeans and I can wear it from work to a show. Practical Andi. I fumble around in the back seat one-handed after easing my car to a stop, all the while dreaming of Ryan pulling one strap down, and then the next, until—shit!
My car lurches forward, and not on purpose.
Crap, crap, crap. I’m so flustered from my daydreams that I forgot to put the vehicle into park. I climb out to assess the damage; luckily, it appears I’ve only run into the curb, and not the beautiful black Ferrari three feet ahead of me. My front bumper has fallen off, but this is okay. The car is old and ready to disintegrate.
I slide back into my front seat and quickly squish into the tank top. I’m no Angela Jolie in Tomb Raider, but anything is better than the collar. Better, I think, glancing in the mirror.
Though not quite good enough.
As my spirits sink, I briefly debate driving away to Mexico, just so I don’t have to face Ryan. My life suddenly feels a little bit sad. I’m bringing smiley face pizzas to the most famous hockey player in the league, and here I am scrubbing sauce off my black tank top.
The more I think about it, the more this idea makes sense. I have a car without a front bumper, a piping hot pizza, and four dollars and sixty-eight cents in my cup holder. I hear Mexico is less expensive than Los Angeles, so all systems are a go.
I get out of the car, carrying the pizza, and then the worst happens.
My car scoots forward again. It’s in park, but apparently the brakes are tired. The whole thing just sort of rolls a few inches down the hill and bumps into the back of the Ferrari.
Mexico it is.
Then my damn conscience kicks in, and I sigh. I will offer to pay for any damage, and I will be indebted to Ryan Pierce forever—I suppose there are worse things in life. Making my way toward the house, I find myself desperately hoping Ryan is not having wild sex with his girlfriend. I can handle him having sex and I can handle apologizing for the dent, but I can’t do both at once.
CHAPTER 7
Andi
There are no screams, yelps, meows, or any noises of that nature coming out of Ryan’s house. I hold my hand poised above the door to knock and blink, hardly able to believe my luck.
I use this moment of peaceful quiet to run through my speech.
Hi Ryan, I’m sorry, but I was fantasizing about you while driving here. It’s a compliment, really. In fact, I was so distracted, I forgot to brake and bumped into your car. Anyway, here’s your pizza! Don’t worry, I threw in some extra breadsticks.
The door opens mid-conversation with myself. I realize I haven’t knocked, and this is embarrassing. Instead of my well-rehearsed speech, I’m now speechless. Somehow, my mouth decides to squeak. I can’t explain it.
“Ryan?” I extend the box. “Pizza.”
“Andi?” He raises one of those dark eyebrows up to where his curling locks flop over his forehead. Instead of a bare torso and a towel, this time he wears a gray sweater. It looks so soft that I almost reach out and touch it. The wool top flows into a flannel pair of pants, and…oh, boy. There it is: the very subtle outline of his manhood. I want it. All of it.
“It’s Andi, right?” he asks again. He peeks in the little brown baggie on top. “Thanks for the Parmesan.”
By the time I look up, my face has turned Peretti Pizza shirt red. I nod and go mute. It’s taking all my willpower not to look at his personal hockey stick.
“Here you go.” He hands over a wad of bills. “Hope this covers it.”
The money doesn’t register, which is saying a lot. I like money, I really do, and I’m sure he left another big tip, but you know what’s even bigger? The thing in his pants. Wowzers.
“I hope you enjoy your pizza,” I say, realizing far too late that I’m speaking to his crotch. I force my eyes up to his face and cough. “Thanks for ordering with Peretti’s. We’ll see you next time.”