Besides, I can’t build a relationship based solely on sex and mutual attraction. Chemistry. Those things all fade with time, and then what, a future of fighting and fucking?
No, thanks. That’s worse than my parents’ marriage of cold avoidance and mutual disdain.
“So,” Lori breezes by me, a wide grin on her face. She grabs some of the gourmet sodas, which are just pricey versions of the sugary crap that comes from the fountain. “Who is he?”
“There is no he, Lori. Just a lot of different things on my mind. I can’t stop thinking about Grace’s mom,” I tell her because no one wants to hear about death. It’s too depressing, at least according to my so-called friends who insisted last night that I stop moping about Grace and enjoy being young, rich, and alive.
Assholes.
“I’m sorry about your friend. The police didn’t say much on the news about her death. Do you know anything?”
I nod in frustration at the lack of effort the detectives have put into solving Grace’s murder. “She was killed and thrown into the harbor, and the police and paparazzi have already forgotten about her.”
I haven’t, and I won’t. Grace’s killer will pay. “It just pisses me off.”
Lori scowls and nods. “I can imagine. I can’t believe you’re here, walking around in one piece. I know you girls were close.”
I’m here in body, but my mind is elsewhere, bouncing between thoughts of Mark and Grace. I let out a near-silent huff of laughter, unable to believe that Mark is the only person really working to avenge Grace. Mark. A biker.
“I need the distraction,” I tell her just as a group of sorority girls flounces in, giggling about formal dresses and the next rush week. “Welcome to Slice of Life,” I say with false cheer. “What’s your pizza passion today?”
More giggling ensues before they order one personal pizza and five salads. “Uhm, can you put the dressing like, on the side? And make sure it’s vinaigrette and not that creamy, fatty stuff, please.”
The sickly-sweet smile on the girl makes me want to punch her in the face, but this is my job.
“Italian or red wine?” My tone is bored, even robotic, which I can’t help, but then the bell over the door chimes again, and in walks Mark, looking dark, gorgeous, and brooding.
He’s wearing his leather vest and a light gray t-shirt that highlights the thick cords of his arms and the bulging pectoral muscles that taper off to a narrow, flat midsection.
My mouth waters at the sight of him as I wait an eternity for the sorority girls to quit bickering about which salad dressing to order. “You each get your own dressing, one per salad,” I remind them.
“We know,” the blonde leader giggles. “But we’re bonding, so we, like, have to decide together. As a group.”
What-the-fuck-ever. “There’s also a balsamic dressing.”
A collective gasp sounds that draws stares from the other pizza lovers. “Balsamic. Totally.” A chorus of agreement and finally, the sorority girls disappear to a booth to wait for their order.
And here is Mark, making my heart speed up and my panties wet, which is slightly embarrassing. “Welcome to Slice of Life. What’s your pizza passion today?”
“My passion, huh?” Mark unleashes a slow smile that makes my legs buckle, but just a little. “What do you recommend, Kenna?”
Oh no. I should have just kept my mouth shut about him calling me Kenna, but it sounds exotic, rolling off his lips. Suddenly, all I’m thinking about is how quickly I can smash our lips together again. But I can’t think about that, not now. Not at work.
“Everything here is made from fresh and mostly locally sourced ingredients, so it’s all good. It just depends on what you’re in the mood for. So, what are you in the mood for, sir?”
“Sir? I like that. What if I told you I’m in the mood for you, Kenna?”
Hell, yes. “I’m at work.” I glance over my shoulder at Lori, staring at us with rapt attention, a giddy smile on her face.
From his frown, I can see Mark’s not happy with that answer, and I stand a little taller. Good. I’m not just some girl just sitting by the phone waiting for his phone call. Or visit.
“All right,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. “Can you spare five minutes to talk?”
“No. I’ve got an order waiting to fill.”
“Oh no,” Lori insists over my shoulder, “it’s all right. Take five minutes.” But her tone is weird. It’s off, and now I’m worrying that I might lose my job for fraternizing with customers or maybe with bikers.
“It’s all right, Lori. He can wait.”
“Nonsense.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “You can’t keep a hot piece like him waiting. Not with those half-naked sorority girls in the corner over there.”
“It’s not like that,” I insist.