When you're twenty-three and a graduate of an Ivy League school in New York, the last thing you want is to deliver a carload of pizzas in your backwater Florida hometown.
To a beachfront mansion.
In the rain.
Cradling five boxes in both arms, I twist and contort my body, so my elbow makes contact with the doorbell.
No answer. Come on.
I press it again. So help me God, this better not be a prank. I don't want to be the one to tell my brother that we baked all these pies for nothing.
Open the door...
I balance the boxes on one arm and a knee and paw at the receipt taped to the side of the top box with my free hand. My blue-black nail polish with the cutesy name of 'Frock 'n Roll' is chipping already, only a day after my at-home manicure. Sighing, I squint at the receipt.
Pre-paid. Five hundred dollars worth of pizza. The other forty-five boxes are in my car, stinking it up with the smell of cheese. But they're already on someone's credit card, and now I don't care whether this is a joke or not. Just dump and go. I un-contort myself and my elbow jabs at the doorbell a third time. There's a long string of chimes from inside the house. At least I'm shielded from the rain under this archway.
The imposing wood door finally swings open and a young guy, about my age, stares at me. I fumble and almost drop the boxes, but recover. He's kind of cute, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Not my type, though. I prefer dark hair and dark eyes, always have.
Why are his eyes so bloodshot? He's probably high.
I shouldn't be so judgmental.
I had promised myself on the flight home that I'd leave the New York snark behind when I moved back to my parents' house. So far, I'm failing.
"Hey. Pizza delivery." I thrust the boxes toward him.
The look of surprise on the guy's tanned face irritates me.
"I didn't ..." He turns his head and shouts into the cavernous house while his blonde hair bounces over his forehead. "Dudes! Did you guys order pizza?"
A couple of voices holler no, and I grit my teeth.
"Are you sure it's the right place?" he asks.
I point with my nose at the ticket taped to the pizza box. My hair and clothes are damp from the rain, but the guy doesn't seem to notice or care enough to ask me inside.
The guy snatches the ticket from the box, reads it, and laughs hard. "Master of Warcraft sent us five pizzas!"
"Um, fifty, actually," I say, wondering what the hell is going on. Maybe they're having a party. But where are the cars? The people?
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