I watch him disappear into the pizzeria and try to convince myself that I didn’t just notice he has an incredible ass.
He’s back a few minutes later with a large pizza box, two cans of Coke, and a stack of napkins. The minute he opens the passenger door and hands the box through, I’m engulfed in the smell of salty fish and marinara.
“I’m having my doubts about this,” he says, pulling a face and indicating the pizza with a tip of his head.
“I told you that you didn’t have to get anchovies,” I say defensively.
He gives the box a disparaging look and closes my door. He drops into the driver’s seat and turns the key, then backs out and heads up the road toward my house. For a minute, I’m nervous that he thinks we’re eating there, but when he takes the left at the corner and heads for the park, I know where we’re going.
He parks on the side of the road near the shelter and reaches across for the pizza. We get out and start up the hill toward our bench. When we reach it, I lower myself onto one end and trace the deep carving of his name with my index finger. “Is this you?”
He sits and sets the pizza box on the bench between us, looking a little chagrinned. “Can I plead the fifth?”
I look at him with raised eyebrows. “So what it says is true?”
The second it’s out of my mouth, I can’t believe I said it. But when he bursts out laughing, it’s a rich sound that vibrates through me and melts my insides. His whole face changes, becoming more boyish—warm and full of life.
I start to laugh along and it sounds totally foreign to my ears. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
“Right to the point,” he says as our laughter dies down. “For the record, my friend gouged that into this bench when we were twelve. We barely knew what * was, let alone what it tasted like. It was more wishful thinking.”
I’m suddenly warm all over. I blame it on the walk rather than the conversation.
“Speaking of eating…” He trails off and opens the box at arm’s length, as if he’s expecting something to spring out and attach itself to his face, like in Alien.
“They’re all dead,” I say.
He looks up at me, concern flashing in his eyes.
“The anchovies. They’re dead,” I say with a wave at the pizza. “I mention this because you look like you think they might jump off the pizza or something.”
“If you’re so sure...” He slides the box toward me. “Ladies first.”
I pull a slice from the pie and bite off the end. And God, it’s amazing. “Mmm…” I moan as I chew.
I realize my eyes are closed, savoring the salty goodness. When I open them, Marcus is looking at me. Scratch that. He’s staring at me, watching my face with rapt interest.
“What?” I say, rubbing the back of my hand over the grease slick on my chin.
His eyes flash with amusement in the moonlight. “I’ve never seen anyone look like eating pizza was a religious experience.”
He pulls a slice from the box and brings it to his face. He sniffs it, then touches the tip of his tongue to an anchovy near the edge. And suddenly I’m jealous of that slice of pizza. His eyebrows go up and he takes a small bite.
“Huh,” he says after he swallows.
“What?” I say again.
He tears off another bite, bigger this time. “I’ve been missing out,” he says through a full mouth.
“Meaning?”
He swallows. “Everyone’s always saying how rank anchovies are. They’re not bad.”
I fold my slice and take another bite. “You’ve seriously never tasted one before?”
“One more thing I can check off my bucket list,” he says with a grin, then shoves half the slice into his mouth.
“What else is on your list?” I ask.
He gives me a long look as he chews. “I don’t really have one, now that you mention it.”
“They’re stupid anyway,” I say with a shrug. “It’s a waste of time thinking about all the things you want to do before you die. You could die tomorrow and a bucket list isn’t going to mean squat.”
I only realize how bitter that sounded when his gaze locks on mine and sharpens, as if he’s lasering in on my thoughts.
I shake myself loose from those eyes that could compel me to spill my darkest secrets if I were to gaze into them too long, and take a bite of pizza. “But whatever. If you want a bucket list, go for it.”
“You don’t have anything you want to do before you check out?” he asks with raised eyebrows.
“Haven’t thought about it.”
“Well you should,” he says, going for another slice. “I want a bucket list.”
“Then make one.”
He leans back and takes a bite. “So where should we start?”
“You already have,” I say with a wave of my slice toward his.
He holds his up. “And you’ve gotten me off to a fine one. So now we need something to top anchovies.”
“We?” I ask. “I told you I don’t want any part of this.”