Read the First Chapter
Rosemary Sterling inherited a pizzeria, a mountain of debt, and a life sentence of pepperoni-scented despair, and she wasn’t entirely sure which one would kill her first.
The pizzeria was called Slice of Heaven, which was either optimistic or sarcastic. Given the state of the place—cracked red vinyl booths, a grease-stained menu board that hadn’t been updated since 2003, and a walk-in cooler that hummed like a dying refrigerator—Rosemary was leaning toward sarcastic.
She stood in the middle of the dining room, her aunt Edna’s last words echoing in her head: “It’s yours now, sweetie. Don’t fuck it up.”
The funeral had been three days ago. The eviction notice had come yesterday. And now, Rosemary was staring at a handwritten note taped to the cash register in her aunt’s looping cursive: “Hiring policy: every delivery girl must be packing. It’s been our thing since 1997. Trust me.”
Rosemary read the note three times, hoping it would start making sense. It didn’t. She called her cousin Tina, who had worked at the pizzeria through high school.
“Oh, that,” Tina said, laughing. “Yeah. Aunt Edna started it by accident. The first delivery girl who applied was, uh… well-endowed. And the tips were insane. Like, mortgage-paying insane. So Edna just… kept hiring that way. It became the brand.”
“The brand is futanari delivery girls?”
“The brand is great pizza and even greater tips.”
Rosemary hung up and looked around the empty pizzeria. The ovens were still warm. The sauce recipe was in her aunt’s handwriting. And the bank account had $347 in it. She needed a miracle. She needed a delivery driver. She needed someone who could save this place before the landlord changed the locks.
The door chimed. A woman walked in. She was tall—easily six feet—with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and the kind of confident stride that said she’d never been intimidated by anything, least of all a failing pizza joint. She wore a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a smile that could sell ice to Eskimos.
“I’m here about the delivery job,” she said. “I’m Jala. And I heard you need someone who can handle… large orders.”
She winked. Rosemary felt her face go red.
“The ad said ‘must be comfortable with your body.’ I’m very comfortable.” Jala grinned. “And I hear the tips are good.”
Rosemary opened her mouth to explain that she wasn’t sure about the whole policy thing, that she was thinking of changing it, that maybe they should just focus on the pizza. But then she looked at the eviction notice on the counter, and the empty dining room, and the $347 in the bank.
“You’re hired,” she said.
Jala’s grin widened. “You won’t regret this, boss.”
Rosemary already regretted it. But as Jala grabbed an apron and started memorizing the delivery zones with military precision, Rosemary felt something she hadn’t felt in days: a tiny spark of hope. Or maybe that was just the grease fire starting in the kitchen. It was hard to tell.
Get the full book on Amazon.
