Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(6)

“Joe’s . . .” Eva repeats, sounding wistful. “I miss his food.”

“You’re in the pizza capital of the world!” I protest, laughing. “New York isn’t exactly hurting for pie.”

“OK, OK,” Eva laughs. “I can’t complain.”

“Go cry to your gorgeous soulmate while you have hot sex in your cool loft apartment,” I tease. “While I eat pizza and watch Grey’s Anatomy alone.”

Eva laughs. “You? Alone? You’ve got every hot guy in a hundred-mile radius on speed-dial—and you know they would all drop everything and come running the minute you called.”

I grin. “I wouldn’t go that far. Anyway, you have fun tonight. Talk soon?”

“Call me anytime.”



I hang up, lock the offices, and head across town to Joe’s pizza place. I live close by, so I walk to work the days I don’t have viewings scheduled. I like the winding route through the town square and the bustle of Oak Harbor in the evenings, especially now in the height of summer, when the streets are full of dogwood trees in bloom and tourists browsing the stores after a long day of sight-seeing or grabbing some fresh seafood at the restaurant on the pier. Joe’s is busy when I arrive, but he catches my eye and beckons me to the front of the line with a cried greeting.

“Delilah, carino!” he leans over the counter and kisses me on both cheeks. “How’s my favorite chica?”

Despite the Italian flag on the menu, Joseph Gonzalez is a hundred percent Cuban, which leads to some delicious flavor combinations.

“I’m great,” I smile back. “How’s Maria?” I ask, naming his spitfire of a wife.

“Mad at me again,” Joe sighs theatrically. He pushes a bowl of breadsticks over to me. “She says I work too hard.”

“You do,” I agree, taking one and biting into the soft, fluffy dough. I sigh with satisfaction. “But don’t ever stop.”

“I’ve got your pie in the oven,” he tells me. “It won’t be long.”

A call comes from the window behind him. “Order up!”

“That was quick,” I grin. Joe takes the box and checks the scrawl on the lid. “Montgomery?” he calls out into the busy restaurant. A voice comes, just behind me.

“That’s me.”

The hairs on the back of my arms stand on end at the familiar sound. It can’t be . . .

I turn and find Will standing beside me.

My mouth drops open in shock. He looks totally different to the last time we met—wearing a faded navy T-shirt and jeans, with stubble on his strong jaw, and his hair curling just a bit too long—but those striking hazel eyes are unmistakable, and the easy, charming smile on that skilled, perfect mouth.

“Hey Delilah,” he says casually, like this is no big deal. “How’s it going?”

I blink, still remembering what that mouth did that last time I saw him.

What? How? Why?

“Will!” I manage to connect my brain to my mouth again. “What . . . ? I mean, what are you doing here?”

“I took your advice.” Will pulls some crumpled bills from his pocket and lays them on the counter, while I try to recover from the surprise.

“You mean, you’re visiting?” I ask. My pulse kicks up at the possibility—and repeat performance of that amazing kiss. “That’s great,” I exclaim, already imagining his hands on me, and so much more. “I’d be happy to show you around town.”

“Thanks, I might just take you up on that.” Will smiles at me. “But there’s no rush.”

“There isn’t?” I’m distracted by his eyes. Were they always this green?

“Nope. I moved here.” Will grins.

Wait, what?

“You were right, I needed a change,” Will continues. “And this place has one thing going for it that no place else does.”

“What’s that?” I ask, still reeling.

“You.” Will smiles at me. “See you around, neighbor.” He takes the pizza box and heads out, weaving his way through the crowd while I stare after him, dazed and most definitely confused.

The hottest man I’ve ever met just up and moved halfway across the country—for me?





Three.


“How hot?” Eva’s sister, Lottie, demands the next morning at our regular Saturday brunch on the pier. She feeds her toddler, Kit, with one hand, but her excited gaze is fixed on me as I fill her in with what happened with Will. “Are we talking ‘hot for the bar on a Friday night’ hot, or ‘Chris Evans in a tight T-shirt holding a puppy’ hot?”

“Chris Evans hot,” I sigh, over a plate of French toast.

“I love it! But wait, why the sad face?” Lottie frowns.

“Because it’s weird!” I protest, feeling strangely unsettled. “We met a couple of weeks ago for like, twenty minutes, and now he moves across the country because of me? Doesn’t that scream ‘stalker’ to you?”

“That depends,” Lottie muses, licking maple syrup from her fingers. “Did he ask you out? Favorite fifty million of your social media posts? Show up on your doorstep with a marriage license and his mother’s wedding gown for you to wear?”