Your Endless Love (The Bennett Family 9)

“That goes without saying, at least to the extent I can influence it. We’ll ask the workers at the resort to respect your privacy, but you know that doesn’t always work out.”

“I know. But hey, I’ll have you with me, my savior.”

That makes me laugh. “Hardly, but I’ll do what I can.” I tap my fingers on the floor, wondering if I should bring up that article I read. If I were Alex, I’d avoid reading the press like the plague. But maybe this is something he needs to be alerted to. “Listen, I read an article today—”

“The one calling me a cheater?” The humor all but evaporated from his voice, which now has an edge I don’t like.

“Sorry to bring it up

. I was just wondering if it had anything to do with... Friday.”

“No, that’s just speculation. If there was a pic of us kissing, it would’ve already made the rounds, and the studio would be at my throat.”

I startle as an unpleasant smell coming from the kitchen reaches my nostrils, then spring to my feet.

“Crap, I forgot I had a pizza in the oven.”

I pray to all the gods the smoke detectors don’t go off as I open the door to the oven and smoke whirls out. My pizza is burnt to the crisp.

“Shit, there goes my dinner,” I mutter.

“You make your own pizza?”

“Not usually. I order from my favorite Italian restaurant, Vicente’s, but they’re closed on Sunday. It’s the best pizza!”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“Oh, you better believe it, mister. I lived in Rome, and Vicente’s is better than anything I ate even in Italy.”

I pull out the pizza and poke at it to see if something is salvageable.

“I think I can eat some of the vegetables on it,” I mutter to myself. “The pepperoni is only half burnt. And the artichokes aren’t entirely black.”

“That’s a lousy dinner.”

“Ugh, I know. Maybe I’ll just order something else later. I’m not even that hungry. But I have to clean the kitchen now, or my entire living room will stink. I’ll e-mail you all the details about the camp later, okay?”

“Perfect. Take care, Summer.”

Cleaning up takes longer than I hoped. The mozzarella overflowed on the metal tray. My right arm aches, but at least the damn thing is close to squeaky clean. I straighten up when my bell rings. Maybe one of my siblings decided on an impromptu visit? It’s not uncommon in my family, even though we usually call or message as a heads-up.

Swinging the door open, Carlo, one of Vicente’s delivery guys greets me. “Evening, Ms. Bennett. I have your pizza here.”

Stunned, I take the box he hands me. “I... err, didn’t order. And you’re closed today.”

Carlo smiles knowingly. “Special delivery.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, “let me get my wallet.”

“All paid for. Enjoy your evening, Ms. Bennett.”

He takes off before I can ask for more details. After shutting the door, I grab a roll of napkins from the kitchen and head to my living room. Sitting on the floor, I open the box. My favorite pizza to boot. A smile plays on my lips. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I suspect who the sender was. But how? Why?

As if on cue, an incoming message pops on my phone with a photo of a pizza that is identical to mine.

Alex: You’re right. It’s the best damn pizza.

Summer: How did you make this happen?