Tossed Into Love (Fluke My Life 3)

“What do you know how to do?” he asks without even glancing at me.

“Everything,” I say.

His doubt-filled eyes move to me. He scans me from head to toe, and I fight the urge to fidget. I’m not lying. When I turned sixteen, I wanted money to buy all the makeup and clothes my mom wouldn’t buy for me, so I got a job at a pizza shop down the street from my parents’ house on Long Island. I worked there until I graduated from high school. I loved that job, and I was so good at it that the owners offered me a full-time manager’s slot if I decided to stay local for college.

“All right, you can help me make pies,” Antonio finally says.

I nod, go to the sink and wash my hands, then stand next to him. We all work in sync, and I’m side by side with Antonio. He presses out the balls of dough into round crusts with his hands, I take them from him and add the toppings, and Hector and Marco put the pizzas in the stone oven and then in boxes when they’re done. At about eight o’clock, the line inside dies down, and the phone stops ringing every five minutes with people placing orders. I’m finally able to breathe a bit.

“I don’t know how you’re wearing those shoes right now,” Peggy states as I pass Hector another pizza to put in the oven.

Turning to face her, I smile and lift the three-inch heel of my shoe off the ground to inspect it.

“I’ve been walking in heels since I was four, when I convinced my mom to buy me a pair of the plastic ones from the grocery store,” I tell her with what I know is a nostalgic smile on my face. “I wore them everywhere. When I finally wore them out, I made my mom crazy by begging her every day to buy me a real pair. She didn’t give in until I was thirteen, but once the seal was broken, I never wore regular shoes again.”

“Sheesh,” Peggy mutters. “I’m forty-two, and I’ve only worn heels twice in my life.” She holds up two fingers. “Once when I got married to Hector”—she lifts her chin Hector’s way—“and when our daughter was baptized. My feet still hurt remembering what it felt like wearing those darn shoes around.”

Hector is Mexican American and is still handsome at forty-three. He’s short, with black hair that’s started to gray at his temples and a black goatee that I bet he dyes to keep it from going gray like his hair. He’s sweet, and he and Peggy make a cute couple. She has dark reddish-brown hair, pale skin, and a petite figure. I bet their daughter is beautiful. I do know that she’s smart—she just started high school this year at a private school in the Bronx, which is why Peggy started working here part-time. Their daughter got a full ride, but she still needs money for extracurricular activities, which at a private school are not cheap.

“I guess I’m just used to them.” I shrug.

“You really shouldn’t be wearing heels back here in the kitchen,” Antonio says, breaking into our conversation. When I turn to look at him, I notice a frown on his face. “They are a health hazard,” he states.

I grit my teeth.

“I like the heels,” Marco says, a cheeky smile on his handsome face. “I like them a lot.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. He flirts with every woman who comes into the shop.

“Marco . . . ,” Antonio growls.

Marco shrugs his broad shoulders. Marco’s half Italian, half African American. He’s close to forty but looks around thirty-five. He’s a little taller than I am in heels, with dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and a killer smile that gets him tons of attention from the women who come in. He’s also very married to a woman named Lola who is okay with her husband flirting because she knows he will never step out on her—if he ever did stray, her three older brothers would kill him.

“I personally don’t care what kind of shoes you wear, chiquita,” Hector breaks in, patting my shoulder. “You’re fast, you didn’t crack under pressure, and every order was made correctly. In my opinion, you can wear whatever kind of shoes you want.”

“You kicked ass tonight, girl. Tony and Martina would be proud,” Marco says.

I let their words settle deep inside me. Hector and Marco have both worked here since before I started coming here, years ago. Tony has trusted them with the shop more than once, so it makes me feel good that they think I’ve done a good job tonight.

“Thanks, guys,” I say softly.

“You wanna put toppings on these pies, Princess, or do you want to continue chatting?” Antonio asks.