Tossed Into Love
Page 4
“Make sure you also spend some time resting.”
“I will. I’ll see you the day after.” I kiss Palo’s cheek once more before I leave him in the office. Walking through the salon, I smile at the other stylists, but I don’t stop to talk since they all have clients.
“See ya, Libby,” calls Max, our receptionist. He’s prettier than most women I know. I turn to find him leaning against the receptionist desk with a smile on his face. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes are lined with dark pencil, making them stand out against his pale complexion.
“See you, Max. Have a good night.” I smile back, then turn and open the door.
As I step outside into the cold, I shiver. I stop and pull my hat and gloves from my purse, putting on both before heading down the block. As much as I want to take a cab across town, I don’t. Right now, traffic is ridiculous; everyone is trying to get home. Going to the subway station on the corner, I take the stairs down to the packed platform. Two trains pass before I’m finally able to get on one. By the time I make it to my side of town, it’s five thirty—thirty minutes later than I told Antonio I would be at Tony’s. I don’t go home to change since I don’t have time; I just head right to the shop. I step inside Tony’s and pull in a lungful of warm air. It smells like pizza dough and comfort. Peggy is at the front counter taking orders, and an overwhelmed-looking Hector and Marco are making pizzas. I hurry through the crowd of people waiting in line to place their orders and go to the office. I don’t knock. I walk in, then stop in my tracks when I see Antonio’s shirtless, muscular back. My stomach twists and dips at the sight before he pulls a plain navy-blue T-shirt down over his head.
“Uh . . . hey.” I clear my throat and avoid his eyes as I tuck away my purse in the corner of the room, then take off my coat and put it over my bag.
“You can’t wear that shirt out there,” he says.
Since I’m the only person in the room, I know he’s talking to me. I turn to look at him.
“Here.” He holds out a T-shirt the same color as his, with TONY’S written in yellow on the front. “You’re not going to argue with me?” He raises a brow, seeming surprised.
“This shirt cost close to two hundred dollars,” I say as an answer, watching his jaw clench.
“Right. See you out front.” He leaves without looking at me again. Watching the door close, I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I do know that he needs to get over it.
Changing into the T-shirt he gave me, I tie a knot in the waist at the side since it’s too long to leave loose or tuck in. Once I’m ready, I leave the office and head through the half door that cuts off the back of the shop from the front.
“Where do you want me?” I ask Antonio.
He’s kneading large balls of pizza dough on a flat stainless-steel surface that’s covered with flour.
“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.
I turn back to the counter behind me and find that I’m behind by three pies. I don’t answer him; I just get back to work. I wonder if I should ask my sisters’ boyfriends if they would investigate me if Antonio suddenly turned up missing. Seriously. One day, I might just kill him.
“I can finish that up for you,” Antonio says three hours later.
I lift my eyes from the table I’m wiping down to look at him.
“I got it.” I go back to wiping and yawn; the adrenaline I felt earlier today is long gone, and exhaustion has firmly taken its place.
“You’re tired. Go rest in the office until I finish up; then I’ll walk you home,” he says as he walks across the now-closed shop toward me. Marco and Hector both left about an hour ago because they will both be coming back around eleven in the morning to open up and get things ready for lunch. Peggy left when her husband did, after cleaning up the kitchen and putting things away. I decided to stay since I can sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to start running dresses around the city.
“I will. I’ll see you the day after.” I kiss Palo’s cheek once more before I leave him in the office. Walking through the salon, I smile at the other stylists, but I don’t stop to talk since they all have clients.
“See ya, Libby,” calls Max, our receptionist. He’s prettier than most women I know. I turn to find him leaning against the receptionist desk with a smile on his face. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes are lined with dark pencil, making them stand out against his pale complexion.
“See you, Max. Have a good night.” I smile back, then turn and open the door.
As I step outside into the cold, I shiver. I stop and pull my hat and gloves from my purse, putting on both before heading down the block. As much as I want to take a cab across town, I don’t. Right now, traffic is ridiculous; everyone is trying to get home. Going to the subway station on the corner, I take the stairs down to the packed platform. Two trains pass before I’m finally able to get on one. By the time I make it to my side of town, it’s five thirty—thirty minutes later than I told Antonio I would be at Tony’s. I don’t go home to change since I don’t have time; I just head right to the shop. I step inside Tony’s and pull in a lungful of warm air. It smells like pizza dough and comfort. Peggy is at the front counter taking orders, and an overwhelmed-looking Hector and Marco are making pizzas. I hurry through the crowd of people waiting in line to place their orders and go to the office. I don’t knock. I walk in, then stop in my tracks when I see Antonio’s shirtless, muscular back. My stomach twists and dips at the sight before he pulls a plain navy-blue T-shirt down over his head.
“Uh . . . hey.” I clear my throat and avoid his eyes as I tuck away my purse in the corner of the room, then take off my coat and put it over my bag.
“You can’t wear that shirt out there,” he says.
Since I’m the only person in the room, I know he’s talking to me. I turn to look at him.
“Here.” He holds out a T-shirt the same color as his, with TONY’S written in yellow on the front. “You’re not going to argue with me?” He raises a brow, seeming surprised.
“This shirt cost close to two hundred dollars,” I say as an answer, watching his jaw clench.
“Right. See you out front.” He leaves without looking at me again. Watching the door close, I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I do know that he needs to get over it.
Changing into the T-shirt he gave me, I tie a knot in the waist at the side since it’s too long to leave loose or tuck in. Once I’m ready, I leave the office and head through the half door that cuts off the back of the shop from the front.
“Where do you want me?” I ask Antonio.
He’s kneading large balls of pizza dough on a flat stainless-steel surface that’s covered with flour.
“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.
I turn back to the counter behind me and find that I’m behind by three pies. I don’t answer him; I just get back to work. I wonder if I should ask my sisters’ boyfriends if they would investigate me if Antonio suddenly turned up missing. Seriously. One day, I might just kill him.
“I can finish that up for you,” Antonio says three hours later.
I lift my eyes from the table I’m wiping down to look at him.
“I got it.” I go back to wiping and yawn; the adrenaline I felt earlier today is long gone, and exhaustion has firmly taken its place.
“You’re tired. Go rest in the office until I finish up; then I’ll walk you home,” he says as he walks across the now-closed shop toward me. Marco and Hector both left about an hour ago because they will both be coming back around eleven in the morning to open up and get things ready for lunch. Peggy left when her husband did, after cleaning up the kitchen and putting things away. I decided to stay since I can sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to start running dresses around the city.
