Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Boone watches as I start to roll out the dough, trying to keep it even, though I’m admittedly not the best at it. It’s definitely a bit thicker than I want it to be, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He leans over the counter, eyeing me as I work.
“You look like you’re trying to create a pizza masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “If this goes wrong, I’m going to hold you responsible.”
“Oh, it won’t go wrong,” I assure him. “Trust me, I’ve been making pizza for years. This is my thing. I know pizza like the back of my hand.”
He raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “So you’re saying you’re a pizza expert?”
I tilt my head, smiling. “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘expert,’ but I’m pretty good at it. My mother always said I had the best pizza-making skills in the family.”
Boone looks at me skeptically. “I think your mom might be biased.”
I laugh. “Maybe. But you’ll see. I’m about to blow your mind with this pie.”
I start spreading sauce onto the dough, carefully smoothing it out with the back of a spoon. I grab some shredded cheese and pile it on, then hand him a piece of pepperoni.
“Alright, Boone, now you’re in charge of topping the pizza. Don’t get crazy with it, just... use your instincts.”
He picks up a slice of pepperoni and holds it up like it’s a piece of fine art. “Is this how it’s done? With artistic flair?” He places one slice of pepperoni delicately in the center of the dough, giving me a look of pride.
I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, not that artistic. Maybe just a little less… minimalistic.”
He shrugs, his grin widening. “I’m just trying to make a statement with my art.”
“Well, your art is a little too avant-garde for me,” I joke. “Try spreading the pepperoni out a little. Maybe add some mushrooms, olives, whatever you like.”
“Okay, okay,” he mutters, rearranging his masterpiece like it’s a crime scene. “I’ll stick to the classics. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“When this pizza is done, we’re not just eating it. We’re going to pretend it’s the best pizza in the world, like we’re in a pizza commercial.”
I burst out laughing. “Deal. But if you start dramatically holding a slice up to the camera and staring at it like it’s a piece of art, I’ll lose it.”
He smirks and adjusts the pizza, nodding like it’s a serious task. “I’m serious, Aubree. This pizza has to be memorable.”
“I’m with you,” I agree, my voice full of mock seriousness. “Memorable pizza is the only kind.”
Once the pizza is assembled, we slide it into the oven. The smell starts to fill the cabin, and I watch as Boone leans against the counter, his arms folded.
“Where did you get your love of pizza from?” he asks, breaking the comfortable silence between us.
I think for a second, the memory hitting me like a wave. “Well, when I was younger, pizza was the go-to treat for anything. Birthdays, celebrations, lazy Sundays. My mom would order pizza whenever we had something to celebrate or just wanted to feel like we were ‘doing something special.’ Pizza was our thing. And it stuck.”
Boone watches me, his eyes softening slightly. “Sounds like it was a big deal for you.”
“Yeah, it was. It was always a moment to look forward to. Something that made everything feel normal, even when life wasn’t.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I get it. I used to have my own thing. When I was younger, pizza was the reward after every hard training session. It was like a tradition.”
“See? Pizza is a universal language,” I joke, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
The oven dings, and I pull the pizza out, setting it down on the counter. I slide a knife through the cheesy goodness and cut a slice, handing it to Boone.
“Well, you might not have been lying about your pizza skills,” Boone admits, taking a bite. “This is actually really good.”
I beam. “Told you.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the pizza disappearing faster than I expected. Then Boone clears his throat, setting his slice down. He looks at me seriously, his brow furrowing slightly.
“So, when did all the attacks at your shop start?” he asks, his tone more somber than I expected.
I glance down at my plate, the smile fading from my lips. It feels like a weight on my chest now, but I take a deep breath. “It started about six months ago. At first, it was small stuff. A few things went missing. Then it escalated. Broken windows. That brick through the window yesterday was just the worst of it.”
Boone’s eyes narrow, his protective instinct kicking in. “And you haven’t had any leads? No idea who’s behind it?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. We’ve checked the cameras, but there’s never anything conclusive. It’s always just... random enough to make it hard to pin down.”