didn’t blame him. Especially when she noticed that his shirt had a big splotch of tomato sauce on the sleeve. The shirt he was supposed to wear to his interview.
“Next five pizzas are on the house,” she said, trying to ease the strain.
“I didn’t do it for the pizzas,” he said, turning to leave.
She caught his arm. That big, muscular arm that tensed even more beneath her hand. “I mean it,” she said. “What you did was really kind.”
“No sweat,” he said, although the easy camaraderie they’d had on their walk had vanished as if it had never existed.
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