The clock on the wall kept me informed as twenty more minutes passed, and then ten more on top of that.

The sound of the door being opened warned me that someone was coming in before Josh and Louie’s arguing confirmed it was them. Dallas followed after the two, the door creaking shut right before a knock sounded at the front door.

“I got it,” my neighbor said, touching one hand to the top of Louie’s head as he passed him up and headed in the direction of the knock, crossing in front of the turned off television.

“He got pizza,” Josh offered up before plopping down on the recliner perpendicular to the big couch I was on. “Meat supreme.”

I didn’t even have the energy to stick my tongue out at him. Hell, all I wanted was to disappear into my room, but I wasn’t about to leave Josh and Lou alone with a man I didn’t know that well. My parents were definitely never finding out about this. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you not liking pineapple.”

“On a pizza?”

He and his brother said it at the same time just like they did every other time we argued about pizza toppings—which was every time. “Gross.”

“Your faces are gross.” Maybe I wasn’t feeling bad enough not to argue with them.

“No, just Josh’s,” Louie chimed in, making me snort. He was too young to have the kind of comebacks he did, but from time to time, he surprised me with them and I loved it.

Sure enough, Josh elbowed Lou and the younger one elbowed him right back. Dallas closed the door and appeared with three boxes, stacked from the biggest at the bottom to the smallest at the top. He set them on the coffee table and gestured toward the boys.

“Little man, can you get some plates and napkins?”

Lou nodded and got up, heading toward the kitchen. By the time he came back with a stack of paper plates and a roll of paper towels, Dallas had spread the pizza boxes out, opening one box after the other, showing that he had ordered an extra-extra-large pizza… and that one of the boys had tattled and told him how much I loved Hawaiian pizzas because the medium sized box had one inside. The last box was filled with chicken wings.

Passing out the plates, our neighbor didn’t even ask as he went straight for the pineapple and ham pizza, using his fingers to pull up two small slices and setting them on the plate Louie handed him, then passing it over. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you,” I said in a weak voice I hated.

“Lou, what do you wanna eat?” he asked my littlest.

He pointed at the meat pizza and then jabbed a finger at the hot wings. “One.” I held up a finger at him, squinting with one eye, and he added, “Please.”

Dallas’s eyebrow went up at the please, but he scooped up a slice and set it on the plate. His hand hovered over the container of hot wings before he asked, “These are spicy. Can you handle it?”

I could only blame myself for the shit that came out of Louie’s mouth next. I really could. Because I said the same thing in front of him a dozen times in the past. “I’m Mexican. Yeah.”

Those hazel eyes swung in my direction, wide and completely fucking amused. “All right, buddy. If you say so.” And just like that, he picked up the leg of what was probably the smallest wing in the box and set it on the plate with the slice.

“Josh, you?” he asked.

Three minutes later, the four of us were sitting around the table, stuffing our faces. I swore the cheese had some kind of magical healing ingredient that made my head stop hurting at least while I was eating. Josh chowed down three slices total and two more wings before throwing himself back on the floor and groaning. Lou wasn’t a big eater, but he picked at enough of his food. I wasn’t sure how much Dallas ate, but it seemed like a lot; I had no idea where all that food went. There wasn’t a hint of bloating or a pooch anywhere.

Some people had all the luck.

“Your head hurting any less?” he asked from his spot on the floor in front of the television, alongside the coffee table. He’d thrown a hand back to hold his weight up, his facial expression lazy and pleased like only pizza was capable of giving someone.

With my clean, pizza grease-free hand, I flipped the palm up and down. “Better than before eating.” I smiled at him. “Thank you. Let me know how much I owe you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” was the no-nonsense answer that came out of his mouth.

I knew when my battles were pointless and when I had a chance, and in this case, there was no use in wasting my energy. Plus, I just didn’t feel like arguing. I could pay him back later. “Thank you again then.”

Before I had a chance to remind the boys what manners were, they piped up, one after the other, filling me with a stupid amount of pride. “Thank you, Mr. Dallas.”

The older man gave them a look too. “I told you, you can call me Dallas.”

* * *

“Mr. Dallas is nice,” Louie commented hours later as he climbed into bed.

“He is, isn’t he?” I asked, plopping down on the corner of the mattress. My headache had eased enough to at least be able to do this one thing for my boy.

“Yeah.” He pulled his sheets up to his neck as he settled in. “Josh hit the ball over the fence and he didn’t even get mad. He told him not to say he was sorry because he didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“‘Anything’ wrong, Lou. But that was pretty nice of him to say that.” As I got older, I realized more and more the things I found attractive. Like patience and kindness. When I was younger—and a hell of a lot dumber—I’d always gravitated toward hot guys with nice cars. Now, there were things like credit scores to worry about, employment histories, and personality traits that couldn’t be picked up over dinner and drinks.