
“But I didn’t order pizza!”
The face on the other side of the screen door crinkled into a frown. A very nice face, I found myself thinking as my eyes soaked in his confusion.
Chiseled cheekbones. A strong jaw. And was that the hint of a dimple on his left cheek?
I shook my head slightly to brush away the thoughts.
“It’s probably meant for 202-C, not 202-B.”
UberEats delivery folks arrived regularly at my neighbor Mrs. Swarthmeier’s door. Rumor had it that the enigmatic Mrs. Swarthmeier herself had not been seen outside her apartment since 2016. I certainly had never seen her. Though evidence of her late-night binge-ordering showed up every week like clockwork on trash day. I never had figured out who actually lugged all that carry-out debris to the curb.
Mr. Tall, Dark and Good-Looking glanced up again from the ticket taped to the top of the pizza box. “Nope. It definitely says 202-B on here.” He stared at me expectantly.
What, he didn’t believe me?!
“Sorry, I didn’t order pizza. There must be some mistake.” I started to swing the front door closed.
“Don’t you like pizza?!” His voice was warm, with overtones of butter and honey. The kind of voice I’d hear in a dream. Yes, that kind of dream. One you never want to wake up from. There was a heavy layer of “you must be kidding me,” overlaid with a fine dusting of humor.
He thought this was funny?!
I swung my front door wide again. “What, you think I’m lying? I told you I didn’t order this! There must be some mistake.”
Ripping off the delivery ticket, he plastered it against the door screen at eye level. “Here. Read for yourself. Unit 202-Bee. As in Believe.”
Now I was getting mad. “Don’t you think I’d remember if I ordered pizza? Whoever took that order just must’ve heard wrong. It’s undoubtedly for the Take-out Queen in 202-Cee. As in Certainly.”
Or maybe C as in ‘confident’ or ‘capable’ or possily even ‘cocky,’ I thought, studying that firm, confident, capable jaw again. But no, I wasn’t going to stand here arguing. I started to close the door again.
“You’re Sylvia, aren’t you?” He was holding up the ticket in one hand. And comparing it to the decorative ‘S’ mounted above my doorbell.
“Let me see that again,” I demanded. As instructed, he plastered the form against the screen with his palm so I could read the fine print. It was a little tough to make out through the screen material. But sure enough, there on the top line was my name: Sylvia Sibley. And below it, my address. Unit 202-B. The pizza, the delivery charge, and even a generous tip had already been paid.
Huh. A gift of some kind?
I leaned closer to the screen and took a small sniff. Something smelled heavenly.
“That wouldn’t be pepperoni, would it?”
He lifted the box lid a couple of inches and peered inside. “Yup. Looks like there’s pineapple in there, too.”
Pepperoni and pineapple? My favorites! Seemed like this pizza was definitely for me. But how would anyone know?! My sister was still back in Iowa, and on the rare occasions I ordered take-out, I generally ate it at home, alone.
“Alright, alright.” I opened the screen door and stuck out a hand. “I’ll take it.”
My stomach rumbled its complete approval. How embarrassing.
A slow smile slanted across his lips. “Guess you must be hungry.”
Actually, I was starving. It was already well after noon, and I hadn’t eaten all day. Working at home is a wonderful blessing unless, like me, you basically hate to cook. Whoever my guardian pizza angel had been, I was grateful.
I offered the man a tip, but he waved me off. “It’s all taken care of,” he said, turning back toward his car. “But maybe I’ll see you again sometime. Next time you order pizza, ask for Zach.”
His voice was as warm and melt-y as the pizza. But I couldn’t imagine he actually meant it. Zach probably flirted with every woman under eighty-five, I told myself.
So imagine my surprise when my doorbell rang again the following Tuesday, to find Zach at my doorstep. Holding not one but three giant pizza boxes, with a grin that would’ve put the Cheshire Cat to shame.
“You didn’t order those, right?”
How embarrassing. Did he actually think I’d put in a super-sized pizza order just to see that adorable dimple again?
“Three extra-large pepperoni with pineapple,” he read triumphantly from the ticket. “They’re definitely for you.”
I threw up a frustrated hand. “Sounds great, but I can’t possibly eat all that by myself!”
He glanced at his watch, then his grin widened. “How do you feel about picnics?”
I’m sure ‘huh’ was written all over my face.
“Pepperoni and pineapple – those are two of my favorites, too. And it’s lunchtime. I passed a park on the way, and I’ve got a couple of sodas in the car. What do you say?”
His wink sparked something deep in my belly that had nothing to do with my affection for pepperoni and pineapple.
“Actually, that sounds wonderful,” I relented. “You bring the pizzas, I’ll grab a blanket.”
I was just walking out my front door, arms filled with a large folded blanket, when the door to 202-C swung open and a grandmotherly sort tottered out.
“Oh!” she said, glancing first at me, then at Zach striding for his car, arms filled with pizza boxes. “I see you’ve met my favorite delivery guy!”
I blushed. Luckily, Zach was already out of hearing range and didn’t look up.
I inched closer. “Mrs. Swarthmeier, I presume?”
Innocent brown eyes turned on me. “Yes, dear.”
“You ordered all these pizzas?”
She nodded, her whole face twinkling.
My eyebrows narrowed. “But we’ve never met!”
“I know. But when Zach brought me a pizza a few weeks ago, I just knew he’d be perfect for you.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You’d never even seen me!”
“Ahh, not true, my dear,” she tut-tutted, waving a finger. “You may not have seen me. But I keep a close eye on you and everything else that goes on around here.”
That strangely-reflective glass in her front window came to mind. And the oversize peephole in her door. She apparently could see out just fine, even if we couldn’t see in.
“So you decided to play matchmaker? How did you know I liked pepperoni and pineapple?”
She waved a hand casually. “Oh, that. I saw a pizza box in your trash once from that place down the street. And trust me, those delivery guys talk. All I had to do was call up and ask what the usual order is for 202-B. They told me.”
On the landing below Zach was staring up, now, wanting to know what was keeping me so long.
“Go on,” Mrs. Swarthmeier nudged me. “Get to know him. I’ve already checked him out.”
“What?!?”
“That’s right, Zach’s passed inspection,” she said, all calm assurance. “Number 404-A had the skinny on his upbringing, and 805-C threw in a few details about his parents and education. Studying nights to be an engineer, A-student, too,” she grinned.
My eyebrows reached for the sky again.
“We old-timers have our ways,” she chuckled with another airy wave.
And as the months flew by, Mrs. Swarthmeier’s match-making instincts proved exactly right. We were a darn good match. Incredibly good.
After consuming enough pizza to basically sink Hawaii, Zach and I came to two firm and unshakable conclusions. First, nothing except pepperoni-and-pineapple would ever grace our pizzas. Once you’ve had perfection, nothing else will do. And second: Mrs. Swarthmeier would make the absolutely perfect maid of honor for our wedding.
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