Author's Note: Hello, all! I'm back, but this time with a Romerica fic! This is for the lovely 14, who has continually reviewed my works and been helpful. I hope this is what you were thinking of!

Let's just say that Romano was not having a very good day.

He had woken up half an hour late because of his idiot of a brother, who had reset his alarm clock ('I just thought that brother would want some more sleep!', to which he had replied 'It's Tuesday, idiota!'). There was rush hour traffic, and when the brunette had finally stumbled past the battered wooden sign that was hanging haphazardly in front of the restaurant (Grandpa Rome's Pizzaria) and gotten into uniform, he was greeted by a constipated- no, was he lost? Or maybe having a violent seizure? Romano had never been very good at lip reading, and thirty minutes later, the mime had run out crying due to all of the (foreign) verbal abuse he was receiving.

And that wasn't it. There were the crying twins, the one with ninety-nine roses who had, for all he knew, proposed to a complete stranger, and the drunk-off-his-ass Brit who had caused quite a commotion as he was a) wearing nothing but a miniskirt, and b) yelling about 'damn Yankees' and 'flying mint-bunnies'. And it was only one-thirty.

"Roma, there's someone at table fourteen!"

The Italian scowled. "Don't call me that, tomato-bastard!"

Antonio only smiled and ruffled his hair, prompting Romano to walk even faster.

Hopefully, he thought, this one won't be nearly as much of a pain-in-the-culo as the others.

"Ciao, I'm Romano and I'll be your waiter for this evening. How may I help you?" Romano recited monotonically, not bothering to look up.

"Could I get a medium, no, large meat lover's pizza with a side of barbeque chicken wings and a Coke?"

Romano scribbled down the order and glanced up over his notepad, expecting a large crowd of people. And froze.

"Actually, make that two chicken wings."

Somehow, despite ordering enough food to feed ten, the American still managed to look like a fucking Abercrombie and Fitch supermodel, blonde hair, blue eyes and all.

"I-Is that all, sir?" Romano managed to stutter out. The man nodded, eyes twinkling as he (not-so-subtly) checked him out.

"Okay then, I'll be, um, back shortly with your order." He then promptly ran back to the counter, nearly crashing into an elderly couple. "A large meat lover's pizza, two barbeque chicken wings, and a Coke!" He called out.

"Are you okay, Roma?"

Said Italian jumped and whipped around, startled.

"Warn a man, damn it!"

Antonio frowned. "Are the customers getting on your nerve?"

"You could say that."

The Spaniard patted his shoulder sympathetically. "What is it that Americans say? Ah, keep calm and carry on."

Romano sighed, receiving the order, and walked away.

"Sono Italiano e non posse stare calm," he muttered under his breath.

By the time he had reached the table, he was prepared.

Just keep a straight face and bear with it, like you did with others, he thought.

Yes, but the others weren't goddamn super models.

A little distracted by all his thinking (and, if he were to be honest, the blinding white smile that was flashed his way), Romano set down the dishes and said, "Careful, the plate is hot too."

"Too?"

Romano's eyes widened almost comically. "No, that's not... I mean, uh..." Embarrassed, he mumbled a 'enjoy your meal' and escaped as quickly as possible.
This was probably why he was still single.

Romano breathed a sigh of relief (and maybe disappointment) when he made his way back to the table to find it empty. But something caught his eye as he turned away, and he walked a little closer to investigate.

A napkin sat on the edge of the table. Upon closer inspection, Romano could make out a scribble of numbers, and below that, a message:
'Call me maybe? ~Alfred'

He scoffed, face burning, and quickly snatched up the napkin, but not before looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

That arrogant bastard. As if Romano would ever text him just because he was scarily handsome and exactly his type.

And apparently funny, a dog lover, and a horrible flirt, Romano later found out on his break.

"Romano, you're shift's starting!"

The brunette quickly tapped out a 'gotta go', before setting down his phone and rushing out to serve another table, a spring in his step and a ridiculous smile plastered on his face.

Maybe today wasn't too bad after all.

"Roma, who is this?"

Romano looked up from taking off his apron. "What?"

"This 'Alfred', he's texting you," Antonio continued, "he's asking whether he'll be seeing you in his bed again and... oh my." The Spaniard raised an eyebrow.

"Give that to me!" Romano snatched his phone away, reading the text, and turned tomato red. "È stronzetto," he muttered under his breath.

"How was it?" Antonio called out, smirk evident in his voice.

"Shut up!" Romano snapped.

"Did you top? Or did Alfred? He did seem like the dominant type..."

"FUCK OFF, ANTONIO!"

He laughed. "Love you too, Roma."

Ugh, I am so darn tired my eyes are burning.