“FoodSwap?” Tyler’s face brightened. “We could.”
“They could get us a few delivery drivers to help with these orders. I know it cuts into the margin for the restaurant, but the good thing is it doesn’t have to be a permanent change.”
“We can hire them for the night.” Tyler took a fresh order of pizza bread from the large oven behind him. That was by far the business’s most popular item, and I knew we’d have to make at least a dozen more that evening. “Let’s do it.”
Not needing any other validation, I finished the pizza in front of me, slipped it into the oven, and rushed into the small office in the back of the business. It would only take a few moments to tell the FoodSwap server we needed help, and I already had the app on my phone. I unlocked the device.
A message from Kendra awaited me.
My stomach lurched, glad she’d bothered to reply. That was promising—at least she still acknowledged me, and at least she was still answering the people who were part of her old life. I considered reading it, but then decided to save the message for later. We needed to get hooked into the FoodSwap system, and we needed to do it now. The restaurant simply couldn’t afford it.
I opened the app, keyed into the system, and took a small breath of relief. Help was on the way.
Just in time.
KENDRA
I was right.
It was a busy night, and for that, I was grateful. I had my first order pickup moments after I pulled out of the driveway, and the second within two minutes of delivering the first. The tempo kept up through the dinner rush, and I dutifully ferried drinks, sushi, hamburgers, chicken wings, barbecue, and more all around the eastern half of the Cincinnati metro area.
With each completed order, I watched the payout tally on the FoodSwap app tick upward. That was another thing to like about working as a freelancer for the company—the money would hit my account the following business day, which eliminated the worry that would have come with waiting for a paycheck. Any reduction in worry was a good thing. A really good thing.
FoodSwap sent me a pickup for Watch Hill Pizza around eight that night.
I was already in the area, having dropped off an order of chicken sandwiches at a house on one of the cul-de-sacs near the edge of Watch Hill. The algorithm must have used my GPS location data to recommend me as the delivery driver. Two pizzas and an order of pizza bread for a total of forty bucks, give or take. The tip I got in addition to the usual delivery fee would probably also be decent; people who lived around this part of town tended to be generous.
Still, I hesitated.
Even though I didn’t keep up with Cincinnati gossip while living in New York City, my various social media accounts kept me informed enough to know that Kyle and Ashley were part of the pizza parlor management team. She had a knack for lighting and an eye for photography, and I’d seen more than one artistic shot of food from the joint on her account over the last several months. Moving back to the area had given me more time than I wanted to admit for mindless scrolling on apps that were really time-sucks—I knew there was a decent chance that accepting this order would cause me to run into one of them.
But I needed the money. We needed the money. And that trumped everything else.
Steeling myself, I hit accept on the app and drove to the restaurant. This would only take a few minutes, and maybe I could hide behind my neck gaiter and baseball cap. One good thing about the lingering effects of the pandemic—some people still wore masks, and that strip of fabric gave me something to hide behind if I wanted to do so. Once I parked, I wrapped the gaiter across my face, pulled the ballcap tight on my head, and steeled my nerves. Go time.
“Pickup for FoodSwap,” I said to the guy behind the register in the main dining room. Some restaurants had resumed full indoor dining but Watch Hill Pizza still had only half the tables it would have before COVID hit, and no one ate at them that evening. “You should see it on the app.”
“Sure thing.” He punched a few buttons on the register. He was skinny and younger than I was. I didn’t know him. Once he finished, he called over his shoulder. “Can you bring out order forty-five?”
“Coming right up,” said a voice I knew immediately.
My toes curled and my stomach sank. That was Seth Sampson. I knew it was. Oh no. The owner of the voice walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room not a half second later, two pizza boxes and a smaller carboard container balancing on his hand.
“Here’s the—oh my God.”
“What?” The guy behind the register looked at Seth, then at me. “Is there a problem?”
“Kendra?” Seth stepped closer to me. “Kendra Collins?”
“Well, I—”
“Take off your mask,” Seth demanded. “I want to see if it’s you.”
With a sigh, I complied. He’d already recognized me anyway. No hiding now. “It’s me. How are you doing, Seth?”
“Good.” He frowned and glanced at the other worker. “Tyler, do you mind giving us a moment?”
“Sure,” Tyler replied. He wavered. “Um . . . why don’t I go ahead and take care of cleaning up for tomorrow. We need to refill the sauces.” With a quick nod, he left us and went back to the kitchen to do what I guessed was basically a made-up task.
“Hi,” Seth said when we were alone again. He put the pizza order on the nearby counter. “I saw you texted me back, and I didn’t have time to reply yet.”
“That’s okay.” I studied him. “So . . . you work here?”
Seth nodded. “Kyle was kind enough to give me some work after I had to close The Frosted Heart.”
“I’m sorry about
