Fools Rush In Page 7

  Sure, why not show off those newly whitened teeth, girlfriend? You’ve got nothing better to do.

  Time to shift gears. Get this train back on track.

  “Laz and Jenna cater all of our big events,” I explained to D.J., trying to keep my focus on the conversation at hand. “They’re the best in the biz.” I nodded back toward the kitchen where Laz was working.

  “Don’t ever let Rosa hear you say that,” Laz hollered from the kitchen. “You know how she is.”

  “How they both are,” I whispered to D.J. He responded with a knowing look, and I raised my voice to add, “Anyway, she’s pretty sensitive when it comes to cooking. And with good right. She’s very good at what she does.”

  “Humph.” Laz turned back to his work.

  I had to smile, thinking of the rivalry between the two. Might be fun to watch them in a showdown sometime. No telling who’d come out on top. Rosa could make some mean classics, and my uncle had a passion for fresh foods, as proven by the garden that consumed over half of our backyard. Of course, his distaste for all things related to Rosa meant she was rarely allowed to root around in his veggies. The man would drop his false teeth if he knew she was hurling his Romas at the neighbors.

  D.J. continued the conversation, oblivious to my ponderings. “Bubba’s looking forward to meeting you both when he helps with the barbecue at the wedding.”

  “Bubba?” Through the window leading to the kitchen, Laz looked up from his pizza making and gave me a curious look. Oops. Had I forgotten to tell him he’d be receiving assistance from Bubba, the barbecue extraordinaire from Splendora, Texas? Perhaps now would be a convenient time. I filled him in on the particulars, and he seemed to take the news in stride. After the hyperventilating passed, anyway.

  “Speaking of barbecue reminds me of something.” Uncle Laz slipped our pizza into the oven, then joined us once again. “I’ve been trying to come up with a barbecue-themed pizza for months now. I think the customers would really love it.”

  “What’s stopping you?” D.J. gave him a puzzled look.

  “Can’t find the right song.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All of his daily specials have a Dean Martin song as a basis,” I explained. “He’s into themed specials. We’ve done a lot of searching but just can’t come up with the right song for a barbecue pizza.”

  “Hmm.” D.J. didn’t look convinced. “I wouldn’t mind taking that on as a project, if you’d agree to let my brother help come up with the recipe for the pizza.”

  “Son, you’ve got a deal.” Laz extended his hand. “And here’s another thing . . .” With a twinkle in his eye, he turned to me. “If you come up with the perfect song, I might just let you date my niece.”

  “Uncle Lazarro!” I literally felt the color drain from my face, and for a moment I thought I might faint. Again.

  Only when I heard D.J. say, “Well, I’ll work double hard then,” did I snatch my first breath of fresh air. I flashed what I hoped would look like a coy smile, and he winked.

  Okay then. This put a whole new spin on things.

  I basked in the glow of this new possibility for approximately seven seconds. That’s exactly how long it took my ex-boyfriend, Tony, to make it from the front door of the restaurant to the counter where we all sat. He saw the gleam in my eye, and I realized I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

  Oh, but what a cookie jar!

  I couldn’t stop the giggle that rose up. I wanted to holler, “Yee-haw!” but stopped short, suddenly confused. Was it yee-haw or hee-haw?

  Oh, what difference did it make? With D.J.’s hypnotic blue eyes staring into mine, only one thing mattered. I needed someone to pinch me—and quick!

  8

  You Belong to Me

  Mama always says, “A mali estremi, estremi rimedi—desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  As my gaze shifted back and forth between D.J. and Tony, I realized I’d fallen on desperate times. But what could I do? D.J. didn’t know Tony from Adam, and Tony . . . well, Tony looked like he didn’t really care to know D.J. at all—outside of a boxing ring, anyway.

  Tony pulled up a chair, sat as close to my stool as possible, and muttered a stiff, “Hey, Bella.” Though he spoke to me, his gaze never left the handsome deejay sitting on my left. As he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, unspoken words shot out of my ex’s eyes: “Hey, cowboy, did I just catch you flirting with my girlfriend?”

  Only, I wasn’t his girlfriend. Hadn’t been for weeks now. When would he get it?

  I managed one word: “Tony.”

  Jenna, coward that she was, decided she’d better get back to work in the kitchen. Laz, never one to miss out on anything exciting, leaned his elbows onto the counter and stared us down, as if he anticipated dueling pistols to be whipped out at a moment’s notice. Duh-wayne sat there with a loopy smile on his face, completely oblivious.

  First things first. I’d better introduce Exhibit A to Exhibit B. That way, at least D.J. would know the name of the man who’d pummeled him when the police asked for information.

  “D.J. Neeley, this is Tony DeLuca.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” D.J. nodded with sincerity etched on his handsome face.

  Alrighty then. Exhibit A was doing just fine. On to Exhibit B.

  “Tony, this is D.J. from Splendora,” I explained. “He’s the deejay for the upcoming country-western themed wedding I told you about.”

  “Ah.”

  I’d never known Tony to be short on words. In fact, I’d never known any Italian man to be short on words, so the sudden gap in the conversation made me nervous. I prayed D.J. wouldn’t fill in the empty space by telling Tony this was his first gig. I could only imagine what that would do to the conversation. I could already read Tony’s mind as it was.

  Thankfully, Jenna came to my rescue with our fresh-fromthe-oven Simpatico special and a cheerful, “Howdy, y’all!” The twang was probably meant to impress D.J., but he seemed to take it in stride.

  As she placed the steaming pizza in front of us, Tony’s face lit up. “You remembered!” He turned to me with newfound confidence in his expression. “Simpatico! I love Canadian bacon and you’re crazy about pepperoni!”

  True. But his theory that I’d ordered the pizza with him in mind was flawed. First, I had no way of knowing he’d be stopping by today, and second—somewhere between the Canadian bacon and the pepperoni—he’d completely left D.J. out of the equation.

  I bit my tongue, waiting to see how a cowboy from Splendora might respond to being snubbed.

  “Oh, look.” D.J. pointed at the pizza. “Here’s a piece that has a little of both. Think I’ll take that one.” He snagged it with an ever-widening smile, one that showed off his strategically placed dimples.

  Ah, compromise. It was the stuff relationships were made of. Good relationships, anyway.

  I grinned as I reached for a piece of pepperoni pizza, then kept a watchful eye on Tony as he grabbed one loaded with Canadian bacon. With our mouths full, we couldn’t exactly quarrel, so the next few minutes gave me plenty of time to pray in silence that things would end well.

  “So, what do you think of the pizza, D.J.?” Laz asked after he’d scarfed down a couple of pieces.

  “Aw, it’s great.” My cowboy deejay responded with that deep bass voice I’d quickly grown to adore—the same voice Sharlene and Cody’s wedding guests were sure to love. “But then, any real pizza tastes good to me. I usually just buy the frozen ones from the grocery store.”

  I half expected the overhead music to come to a grinding halt and for the crowd to fall silent at this public confession. D.J. nibbled away, never knowing what he’d said, but I could tell Uncle Laz’s breathing had grown shallow. Not a good sign. No one ever used the words frozen pizza in his presence.

  Tony gave D.J. a look that said, “Are you kidding, or what?” and Jenna, drawing on her cowardice once again, announced she had to wait on some incoming cus
tomers.

  “Young man.” Laz stared D.J. down. “A few minutes ago, I thought you might be capable of coming up with a name for our new barbecue pizza. Now I’m not so sure.” He paced back and forth. “I must rethink this proposition. Something has to be done. But what?”

  “W-what do you mean?” Confusion registered in D.J.’s eyes.

  “I’m going to have to see you in action.”

  “Excuse me?” D.J. shook his head. “In action? Are you talking about construction work?”

  “No.”

  “That deejay thing? ’Cause I’m a little new at—”

  “I’m talking about pizza making, cowboy,” Laz explained. “Roll up your sleeves. There’s going to be a duel.”

  “A . . . a duel?”

  “Between you and Tony here.”

  Tony almost choked on his Canadian bacon. “W-what?”

  “A pizza bake-off,” Laz said. “The winner wins the right to name the barbecue pizza.”

  I sighed with relief when he didn’t add, “And the winner gets to date Bella.” I didn’t want Tony to think for one minute that this had anything to do with me. Our Simpatico days were over.

  “B-but I’ve never made a pizza in my life,” D.J. stammered. “Wouldn’t even know where to start.” I could read the fright in his eyes. Who could blame him? My invitation hadn’t included the words, “Bring your dueling pistols.” I’d simply asked him to come for some pizza.

  I decided to throw in my two cents’ worth. “You’re not playing fair, Laz.”

  “All’s fair in love and war.” My uncle gave me a wink. “Now, as soon as you boys are done eating, wash up and meet me in the kitchen. We’ve got some baking to do.”

  Tony, born and raised by an Italian mama, swaggered into the kitchen minutes later. D.J. followed along behind him, looking exactly like I felt—deflated. He glanced back at me as if to ask, “How did I get here?” and I shrugged. Some families had dueling pistols. Ours had dueling pizzas. What could I say?

  Still, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor guy. One day he was a happy-go-lucky construction worker humming a country tune to pass the time. The next, he was a pizza-making deejay with a Dean Martin mandate hanging over his head.

  I rose from my barstool and tagged behind the others into the oversized kitchen, where Joey slaved away. He looked over at D.J. with a “Hey,” then at Tony with an “Uh-oh” and moved over a bit to continue his work.

  Uncle Laz pulled out a batch of freshly made dough and a couple of containers of homemade sauce, then leaned against his cane as he made an announcement. “Gentlemen, you are free to use anything you find in this kitchen. I don’t care what kind of pizza you make—just come up with something edible. Forty-five minutes from now, one of you will be crowned the winner and will earn the right to name the barbecue pizza.”

  I took note of Tony’s puffed-out chest—a familiar sight. And I saw the wrinkles in D.J.’s brow—also familiar by now.

  “May the best man win!” Laz exclaimed. Then he turned to Jenna and me and said, “Ladies, out of the kitchen.”

  “But—” I said.

  “No buts.”

  I returned to my seat at the counter and watched through the opening leading to the kitchen. Tony slipped on an apron over his dress shirt and began to move at lightning speed, spreading his dough across the large pan, then ladling on ample amounts of sauce. He laid it on thick—the silent bragging, not the sauce.

  D.J., on the other hand, looked at the dough as if it were some sort of alien being. Finally, likely intimidated by Tony’s speed, he took it in his hands and began to spread it out on the pan. Okay, so it didn’t quite reach the edges, but who cared, really? No one said the pizzas had to be shaped perfectly, they just had to taste great.

  Tony started cooking up a pan of sausage on the stove, and the whole room filled with a tantalizing aroma. This would be hard to beat. I watched as D.J. reached for a skillet. He ambled over to the refrigerator, returning with a pound of hamburger.

  Hamburger?

  He fried it up in the pan, then lightly simmered some onions on top.

  By now, Tony had covered his pizza in large lumps of fried Italian sausage. To that, he added ham, pepperoni, anchovies, and an ample spread of black olives. Yummy.

  I watched with fear and trembling as D.J. added cayenne pepper to his meat and onion mixture. He spread it out on top of the pizza, then looked at Laz, dead serious as he asked, “You got any pinto beans ’round here?”

  “Pinto beans?” Jenna and I looked at each other, dazed. Who put pinto beans on a pizza?

  Laz nodded. “My pinto bean soup is the best on the island. I always keep them on hand.” He pointed to the supply cabinet in the back of the room. D.J. returned moments later with a can of pinto beans. He drained the juice and covered the spicy meat and onion mixture with the tiny brown beans. Certainly didn’t look very appetizing.

  “Got any jalapeños?” he asked.

  My eyes widened. Man. Talk about one spicy pizza!

  Uncle Laz brought him a couple of fresh jalapeños, and he took to chopping them, then placed the thin slices atop his meat, onion, and bean mixture.

  My gaze shifted to Tony, who’d taken the block of mozzarella and started slicing ample amounts to seal the deal on his Italian lover’s delight. My mouth watered as I watched those pieces slide into place. I could almost imagine them bubbling away in the oven. Nothing tempted me more than mozzarella. Well, other than cheesecake. And tiramisu. And one very handsome deejay who now had a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Do you need something?” I asked.

  He nodded, then looked over at Laz and asked, “Where’s the real cheese?”

  “Excuse me?” Uncle Lazarro gave him an incredulous look. “Real cheese? This is real cheese.” He lifted the block of mozzarella, and for a moment I thought he might hurl it D.J.’s way. Thankfully, that did not happen.

  “No, where’s the orange stuff?” D.J. asked.

  I wanted to turn and run from the building.

  “Did he just say orange stuff?” Jenna whispered.

  I groaned my response. If things kept up, I’d never get to date my handsome cowboy.

  Uncle Laz went to the walk-in refrigerator and came out with a container of shredded cheddar. “This is the only orange cheese we’ve got in the place. I usually put it on the salads.”

  “Perfect!” D.J. grabbed it and covered the top of his pizza.

  Now, I’d seen plenty of pizzas in my day, but none that looked like the one in front of me. Funny thing—both Tony and D.J. beamed with delight as their concoctions went into the oven.

  We filled the next few minutes with pleasant-enough conversation, but my scrambled thoughts got in the way. I couldn’t explain why it was so important to me that D.J. make a good impression on Laz, but it was. And it had nothing to do with pizza.

  Fifteen minutes later, two bubbling pizzas emerged from the oven. I had to admit, they both looked tantalizing. To my surprise, D.J. went back to the refrigerator and returned with a bag of shredded lettuce, which he sprinkled atop his pizza. After that, he added a couple more handfuls of grated cheddar, then diced a tomato and sprinkled the bright red pieces around on top. What had started out as a dull-looking pan of pizza suddenly looked like a feast for the eyes.

  To add that final touch, D.J. placed a hefty dollop of sour cream in the center of it all, jabbed a jalapeño in it and stepped back to examine his work. He crossed his arms at his chest, and the little dimples that appeared let me know he was pleased with his work. I didn’t blame him. I could see exactly where he was headed with this new idea of his, and I liked it—a lot.

  Jenna jabbed me. “I get it,” she said. “Taco pizza. Cool.”

  “No. Taco pizza . . . spicy.” D.J. gave her a wink.

  Jenna turned several shades of red, and her eyelashes fluttered—just like they always did when embarrassment got the better of her.

  “Looks wonderful. Don’t know why I did
n’t think of it myself.” Laz turned and looked around the restaurant, assessing the crowd. “We’ll choose a couple of customers to be our round-one judges. Then you ladies will judge round two. I’ll make the final decision.”

  I looked into D.J.’s eyes and saw the satisfaction written there. Funny. My construction-working deejay cowboy might just turn out to be a top chef as well. Was there anything the boy couldn’t do?

  The crowd swooned over both pizzas, but amazingly, the taco pizza won out. Jenna and I took our seats, ready for a nibble. I felt Tony’s gaze on the back of my neck as I bit into his traditional Italian pizza. Delicioso!

  D.J. gave me a lopsided grin as I bit into his concoction. The first bite took me by surprise. Something about the cold lettuce, cheese, and tomato atop the hot, spicy ingredients really did something to my palate. And that little touch of sour cream was just right. If I closed my eyes, I could almost see myself nibbling away on a taco.

  “Mmm.” Jenna looked up at me, surprised, then whispered, “Tony’s going to kill us.”

  I nodded, thinking of my mama’s words: “A mali estremi, estremi rimedi—desperate times call for desperate measures.” I glanced up at Laz with an unassuming smile. “We, um, love ’em both. So the decision’s up to you.”

  Uncle Lazarro bit into a slice of Tony’s pizza and gave him a thumbs-up. “Excellent, son. You can come to work for me anytime.”

  Like that would happen. Tony? In a kitchen?

  Next it was D.J.’s turn. Laz took a hesitant bite of the pizza, then looked up with excitement in his eyes. “This one surprises me.”

  “In a good way I hope, sir,” D.J. said.

  “Yes.” Laz wolfed down the rest of the piece, then licked his lips. “Where did you come up with the idea for this? It’s brilliant.”

  “Well, every day out on the construction site, a trailer pulls up with the words Tacos Sabrosas written on the side. I love their homemade tacos. Just figured I’d use those same ingredients on my pizza. See if it would work.”