“You two are having way too much fun back there,” Vic says with a grin and a wink.

We go back to work, and when we’ve all kneaded our dough into submission, we leave it to rise while we learn about what goes into authentic pizza sauce. Vic lays out all the ingredients and we slice and dice and throw it all into pots, then season to perfection. As the sauce simmers, we learn to stretch our dough onto pizza paddles and Vic talks us through toppings.

“Almost anything goes,” he says, then his eyes flash to me and he grins. “Except cockroaches. We frown on that.”

I roll my eyes, but crack up again.

Soon after, our first pies are in the oven. Alessandro has topped his with basil and tomato. “A classic Margherita,” he says.

I’ve gone with bell peppers, red onions, olives, and pepperoni. My favorite.

They come out of the oven and Alessandro slices his and pulls up the first wedge, turning it for me to take a bite. “Try it.”

I bite off the tip, and between the dough and the sauce and the blend of cheeses, it’s really amazing. “Wow.”

“Sometimes less is more,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him and glower. “Are you dissing my pizza?”

“Certainly not,” he says with feigned indignation.

I pull up a wedge and turn it for him to take a bite. He does and as he chews, his eyebrows arch and he smiles. “And sometimes more is more,” he says after he swallows.

We each take the rest of our dough and make another pizza, and this time I go for the anchovies. I actually like them, but I don’t usually order them because, if I’m sharing with Brett or Jess, no one else is going to touch them. But when I look at what Alessandro is doing, he’s got anchovies on his too.

“No way,” I say.

He looks up at me, then down at my pizza and smiles. “Great minds . . .”

By the time the class is over, I’m stuffed and have two pizza boxes full of pizza to take home with me. “God, I don’t want to go to work,” I lament as Alessandro holds the door and I step through onto the sidewalk. I’d seriously consider calling in sick, because I can’t think of anything more depressing than going to the bar after this, but I can’t afford to skip.

“Can I come with you?”

When I look up at Alessandro, there’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite read. “Why?”

He takes my pizza boxes and stacks them on top of his then tucks them all under his arm. “I had a nice time today, and I have nowhere else I need to be at the moment. I guess I’m not ready for the day to end just yet.”

My stomach kicks, because what I realize just this second is that frustrated, wrong feeling I had waking up next to Brett is gone. As a matter of fact, everything feels right for a change. “Only if you promise to check your cockroaches at the door.”

He smiles. “Done.”

We walk into the bar and Alessandro finds a stool as I head to the bathroom to change. I’m a little embarrassed for him to see me in my Filthy’s getup, but there’s not much I can do about it. When I come out five minutes later, he’s deep in conversation with Jerry, who’s scarfed slice of pizza from Alessandro’s box. There are two other groups in the bar, clustered into booths, and Bill-Bob and a buddy at the end of the bar. As usual, Jerry’s got the stereo blaring over the TV, which has a NASCAR race on at the moment.

“There’s not a welterweight that’s gonna touch Velasquez,” Jerry is saying as I head behind the bar.

Alessandro’s eyes catch on me as I pass, and I see them widen before he answers Jerry. “I think Jackson can give him a run for his money. And possibly Brady.”

“A friendly wager?” Jerry prompts, dollar signs dancing in his eyes.

“I’m not much of a gambling man,” Alessandro tells him with a smile.

“Stop trying to swindle the customers, Jerry,” I say, brushing him aside. I set a bar napkin down in front of Alessandro. “What do you want?”

I see him trying and failing to keep his eyes on mine instead of letting them slip down the front of my skintight T-shirt to the Filthy’s logo over my chest. Seeing his struggle sends a shiver through me. I feel my nipples harden with the rush, and I know he notices when his face flushes through his olive skin. “What’s on tap?”

“Jerry only carries the good stuff,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster, looking right at him. “So your choices are, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Coors, or Samuel Adams, which is the only thing we have on tap worth drinking, in my humble opinion.”

Alessandro leans into the bar and smiles, and in the dim lighting I see a spark in his eye. “I trust your humble opinion. Sam Adams, please.”

Jerry smirks and heads into the office while I grab a mug and pour Alessandro’s beer.

“I’m considering interviewing for the director of Teen Services position at the Catholic youth center.”

I set his beer on the bar in front of him as my heart skips. Does this mean he’s staying? “That would be amazing.”

He pulls the mug closer and my eyes are glued to his hand as he traces the handle with the tip of his index finger. I catch myself wishing that finger were tracing something else. Something attached to me. “The nun mentioned it when I was in there Monday and I dismissed it, but I’m having second thoughts. Throughout my seminary training, children have always been my passion. I’ve established youth centers in Corsica and at my parish in Rome. This just feels right—like a way I could make a difference for other kids like Lorenzo and me.”

My heart feels like it might explode. I think this could really help him. “Alessandro, I think you would be perfect for that. You should definitely interview.”

He lifts his mug, drawing a long sip, then sets it down, locking me in his gaze. “Thank you for making me walk through those doors. I never would have found it in myself to go back to the Church on my own. Being unable to follow through on my vow is one of my great failures. But, now . . . maybe I have another chance.”

“Can I get another one down here?” Bill-Bob calls from the end of the bar, jiggling his empty mug in the air and reminding me why I’m here.

But, even still, it takes me a second to free myself from Alessandro’s gaze. “Got it,” I yell back, flipping a fresh mug off the rack.

I feel Alessandro’s eyes on me as I fill it and I’m suddenly embarrassed. He spends his days at the Y helping inner-city kids try to make something of themselves, and I spend mine strutting around in ass shorts and getting old guys drunk.

I pour the foam off the top of Bill-Bob’s mug. “Welcome to my glamorous life. Just so you know, this isn’t my real job.” I say it, but then laugh at myself, realizing that’s kind of like those stupid bumper stickers on the backs of twenty-year-old Ford Fiestas that say My other car is a Porsche. “I mean . . . it’s not what I want to do.”

“Broadway,” he says.

I nod. “There’s a part I have a real shot at. The audition is Tuesday.”

When I glance up at him, he’s tapping his index finger on the side of his mug as if thinking, but his gaze is locked on me. “There is nothing wrong with your job, Hilary,” he finally says, like I just need to accept that this is the best I’m ever going to do.

I walk the length of the bar and slam Bill-Bob’s beer down in front of him, sloshing some over the rim, then storm back down the bar to Alessandro. “I will get a part.”

“I’m quite sure,” he says, tracing the rim of his mug with his index finger, and I realize my anger is misdirected. I’m really just frustrated with myself. And scared.

I blow out a sigh. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No need.”

I pick up the bar rag to go clean up the mess I made in front of Bill-Bob, and scream when a giant cockroach flies out of it. It lands on the counter below the bar and I start beating on it with the bottom of a beer mug.

But it just bounces around. No guts.