I was just about to untie my apron and call it a day when she stormed in—a whirlwind of fury wrapped in an expensive coat, clutching a pizza box like it was a ticking time bomb.
The door slammed shut behind her with a force that made the windows rattle, and suddenly, our cozy little pizza shop felt like ground zero.
“Where’s the manager?” she barked, her eyes laser-focused on the counter, where my grandmother was calmly manning the register, completely unfazed by the storm brewing just a few feet away.
I paused, one hand still on the knot of my apron, and exchanged a glance with Grandma.
