A knock on the door. Pizza boy. His towering physique fills her doorway; the smell of pepperoni fills the air.
She’s wearing her new Margarita Saplala jumper in black jersey with a deep, gently ruffled vee. It just skims her thighs and pairs with everything, from ankle boots to skinny jeans. (Goes well with bed head, too.)
She tells him to put the steaming pies on the kitchen counter. His biceps flex through red polyester.
“Nice dress,” he says, flashing smoldering green eyes. “Enough cotton to be soft, enough slouch to be sexy.”
She puts her hands in her pockets, the hemline inching up ever so slightly. She considers asking him to stay and have a slice.
Instead she hands him a tip and points to the door.
He’d already delivered, after all.