LEXI

“He quit.” I pour myself a glass of wine, survey it, then decide it’s a fill to the tippy-top sort of night and add another splash of cabernet before turning back to my phone call. “I asked him to limit his phone time on the job, and he quit in the middle of his shift.”

“How full is your glass of wine?” Kitty asks.

“You know, regular.”

“Tippy top?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m on my way over,” she says. “I’ll bring the other bottle.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, darling. We’re having a glam night.”

“Kitty, I’m not in the mood.”

“Put them on.” Kitty’s voice is a bit raspy, and I picture her finishing up a cigarette. “Now. Then, I’m going to need you to call that place—what’s the one?—with all the pepperonis. Order a large pizza. I’ll get Sasha over. She can bring the products this time.”

“I’m not feeling very glamorous tonight.”

“That’s exactly why you need a glam night,” Kitty says. “Now get ready, and if there’s no pizza and pajamas when I show up, I will not be happy.”

Kitty hangs up without leaving time for a rebuttal, and I can’t help but smile. I take a sip of wine, call the pizza place, and put in my order for a large garbage pizza. I try not to think about the good old days, but it’s impossible every time I order from Mavericks.

When Lucas lived here, he, Bradley, and I would each order a five-dollar small pizza. I’d order the garbage, Lucas would order the extra, extra cheese, and Bradley would order the Meat Lover’s Delight. Then we’d each trade a third of our pizzas so we had three different slices. Like a glorious, perfect ying yang of cheese and sauce.

The last few years, I’ve had to settle for one style. Hence the one with everything on it. They charge extra to split the pizza, and these days, I’m in the business of conserving money.

“Do you want this out with the other one?” Marcello asks. “Your friend just called. It’s been awhile.”

“What?” I lean against the counter. Marcello and I go way back. He’s been taking my orders since the days of the five dollar small pizzas. “No, it’s just me.”

“I have two orders going to your address,” Marcello says. “You don’t know the other guy?”

My heart thumps. “What’s his name?”

“You’re messing with me.”

“Marcello!”

“Brad Hamilton. What, are you two not talking lately? I’ve been wondering what’s up. He orders, you order, but never together. Not like you used to.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” I mumble. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Sensitive topic? Sorry. I always did think the two of you made a cute pair.”

“We were never dating.”

“You’re messing with me again.”

“Marcello!”

“Why the hell did you guys spend so much time together?” he asks. “Back when I was just the delivery guy, you’d always be in each other’s apartments.”

“Slow night at the pizza shop, huh?” I retort. “Now that you’re not a delivery guy anymore and are all promoted to a fancy title, it’s none of your business.”

“Fine, I was just offering my two cents.”

“Don’t want it, I just want the pizza.”

“Twenty minutes, lovebug. It’ll be right over.”

I skulk into my room, wondering why the hell Bradley is still ordering from Marcello. Marcello is mine. I found him first. He should’ve known that in the event of a break in friendship, I inherited the pizza guy.

Then again, not all that much about Bradley is logical. I should hate the guy for turning his back on us, especially when he needed us the most. I had tried to visit him, tried to help, and he’d pushed us away so many times I’d finally stopped bouncing back. If he wanted to be all surly and alone, I couldn’t force myself on him.

It had hurt to watch him wallow, but I’d done everything I could think of at the time. Maybe it hadn’t been enough, though. Maybe... My thoughts trail off as I remembered the conversation earlier today, the words that’d been on the tip of his tongue.

If only my stupid phone hadn’t rung then, alerting me that Theo had quit mid-shift and left Rick high and dry, maybe we could’ve finally hashed a few things out. A good shouting match between us is well overdue.

Even more, however, there’d been the way he looked at me. I’d called him out for checking on my cleavage, but to my own great surprise, I hadn’t been upset at all. If anything, he looks at me differently now, like a woman, and I sort of like it.

It only took him twenty some years to discover that I have a vagina and breasts, but better late than never, I suppose. If anything, the way he’d bit his lip ever so slightly, his eyes turning into glittering brown gemstones had warmed me in ways I haven’t warmed in years.

I open my drawers, glancing down at the top one. According to Kitty, every woman needs a few things to make her feel glamorous in life. A big glass of wine, some fancy facial products, and a pair of expensive silk pajamas, specifically.

After a trip to France to visit her latest boyfriend, she’d brought back pajama sets and distributed a pair to me and Sasha for Christmas last year. Sasha had gotten a pale pink set that made her look even more adorable and brought out the blush in her cheeks.

For my far less adorable person, Kitty had smartly selected black silk fringed with white lace. A matching tank top, shorts, and a robe. I might’ve scoffed at the gift initially, telling her my old cotton shorts and holey t-shirt did the trick just fine for pajamas.

Then, I’d slipped into these bad boys, and I’d never gone back.

Glam nights had started shortly after. Glam nights consist of the three of us getting together to drink wine, watch movies, eat pizza, and generally pretend we live in a villa in France instead of an apartment in snowy Minnesota. I thought it was silly until I tried it. Now, my only regret is that glam nights hadn’t arrived sooner.

I slide into my pajamas, wrap the robe around me, and gather my glass of wine. This alone, combined with a shower after work, have made me feel like a new woman.

I flop onto the couch, nurse my red wine, and flick through a few episodes of reality TV before settling on a British cooking show. If I’m pretending to live in Europe tonight, I might as well have the background noise for it.

One and a half glasses of wine later, I’m feeling great. My stomach is growling, pizza is on the way, and my friends should be arriving any moment. I top off the glass, finishing the bottle I’d started yesterday.

Before I return to the couch, there’s a knock, and I hide my squeal of excitement as I open the door to find the pizza guy. Thankfully, the robe has three-quarter length sleeves, ties at the waist, and goes down to my knees. Save for the whole ‘fine silk’ thing, it’s a perfectly acceptable garment in which to retrieve pizza. My work t-shirt shows more skin.

“Hello, I have one large pizza for you,” the delivery guy says. “Anything else?”

I pay him, leave a good tip, and try not to feel old. I’m now at the age where twenty-year-old delivery boys look like babies. I sigh, shut the door, and retreat to my kitchen. Nothing a little more wine can’t solve.

I open the pizza box half an inch. Just to peek. I wouldn’t start without my friends. Not unless I was in danger of turning hangry again. As evidenced by the situation in the elevator, a hangry Lexi makes some very regrettable decisions, namely agreeing to a date with Bradley Hamilton.

It’s not the date that is regrettable. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it. It’s that the promise of a date is dredging up all sorts of feelings that have no place being here. Especially not now, after all these years.

If there were something between us, surely he would’ve made a move years ago. For example, he might’ve actually asked me to prom as a date, not as a “friend”. His message had come through loud and clear.

In response, I’d attempted to shut off all the extra feelings for him and focus on the platonic ones. It hadn’t worked, though it’d been a valiant effort. And now the attraction is back in full force. The scariest part is that we’re both willing and able adults, and there’s nothing stopping us from getting together in any sort of way.

If he comes over and offers to blow off some steam with me one more time, then touches my shoulder or my cheek like he did earlier, I won’t be able to say no. I’ll be as weak as I was in the elevator at the sight of his burger.

I love smoking hot, delectable things, and Bradley Hamilton all grown up is looking mighty delicious.

My half inch peek turns into a one inch peek at the pizza, which eventually turns into me throwing the box completely open. I stand, staring at it, flabbergasted.

“Oh, hold on!” I yell, running toward the door. I have the pizza box in one hand as I fling it open. “This isn’t a garbage pizza!”

I stop, coming to an abrupt halt as the door across the hall swings open and Bradley Hamilton rushes into the hallway looking just as distraught. He’s also got a pizza box in his hands, and he’s shouting about a garbage pizza.

He doesn’t see me at first, so I have a few extra seconds to process what’s happening. The new guy switched our order. Either that, or Marcello is trying to play matchmaker and did this on purpose.

Bradley slowly realizes the same thing, and he turns on a heel to face me. We survey each other over the smoking hot boxes, and at the same time, we both growl. “Marcello.”

“Idiot,” I say. “What a jerk.”

“He’s...” Bradley’s insult is either too complicated to say aloud, or he’s gotten distracted mid-sentence.

When the pizza box flops toward the floor, I realize it’s the latter.

“Don’t drop it!” I leap toward him, startling him to attention. “That’s my pizza.”

He makes the grab in record time, but as he manages to stand himself upright and avoid the pizza on the floor, his jaw doesn’t follow. It practically clunks as it hits the carpet.

“What are you wearing?”

I look down, horrified to see that my lunge to save the pizza has unbelted my robe in the process. It’s swinging wide open, so everything else is visible. By everything, I mean the dainty straps of the tank top, the tufts of lace that line my breasts. The shorts that go just far enough below my rear end to call them shorts instead of underwear.

“Why are you looking?” I snap. “Give me my pizza.”

A slow, gorgeous smile turns Bradley’s face into all sorts of sunshine. It’s beautiful, quite frankly, and I’m suddenly struck by the fact that I haven’t seen him smile in three years.

A shame because he has a gorgeous smile.

He used to use it all the time. Same with his sunny laugh, the twinkling in his eyes. I’m sliced straight through to realize his accident took away even more from him than I’d anticipated.

It not only stole his career and passion, it took from other bits of his life too. Confidence, maybe, and lightness. He’s more guarded now, more protective. His laugh comes slower, it seems, and more reserved.

This new Bradley isn’t better or worse, just different. I’m beginning to discover that we’re getting reacquainted all over again. Falling back into friendship, or...whatever this is.

“You look...” he clears his throat, tries to sound dignified. “You look great.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.” His eyes can’t seem to veer from my clothes, my body. “You are...”

I’m waiting with baited breath for whatever he’s about to say when the elevator door dings, and Kitty steps out at the end of the hall.

Brad’s eyes lock on mine, and a glance passes between us. One of frustration on so many levels. So many interruptions. What might be the start of sexual tension. Or desperate desire for the correct pizza.

Meanwhile, Kitty’s intent on ruining the moment. She’s waving two bottles of champagne in the air. Her sunglasses are nearly twice the size of her face, and she’s got on the teensy tiniest slip that makes her look like some fashion model.

It’s not until she’s halfway down the hall that she realizes she’s interrupted something.

“Oops,” she says, covering her mouth. “Sorry, carry on.”

She lets herself into my apartment and slams the door.

“So,” I venture, once the hall is silent again. “Wanna trade pizzas back?”

“I have a better idea,” he says, then beckons for me to follow him into his apartment. “Do you remember how we used to do this?”

I assume he’s talking about the pizza swap, but his hand says otherwise. It lands on my lower back, and I’m occupied by all sorts of other, far dirtier, thoughts.

“Uh—”

“Relax,” he says. “It’s just pizza.”