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 looks up from where he’s checking the locks on the windows. “You cooking dinner?”
I offer him a playful smile, something I haven’t felt in a while. “Yeah. But we’re not eating in here tonight.”
He arches a brow. “We’re not?”
“Uh-uh.” I glance out the window. “I thought maybe we could, I don’t know, eat under the stars. Since it’s such a nice evening.”
His gaze flits to the window, and for a second, I catch a flash of longing in his eyes. Maybe he needs to break the cabin monotony too, but he won’t say it. He just nods. “All right. But keep it close to the cabin. I can’t protect you if we wander too far.”
“Deal,” I say quietly, turning back to stir the pasta.
I set the table just enough to gather two plates, utensils, and some napkins. I find an old quilt folded in the closet—faded blue and white squares, smelling faintly of mothballs. With a wrinkle of my nose, I spritz it with a little fabric spray I find in one of the drawers. Good enough.
The pasta sauce simmers for a while, filling the cabin with a mouthwatering aroma. I tear up the mozzarella into small bits and stir them in, letting them get all melty and gooey. My stomach rumbles in anticipation, and I can’t help but think about how this is the closest I’ve been to my old life in days—cooking for someone else, conjuring up a sense of normalcy through food.
Once everything’s ready, I load up two plates with chicken, steaming pasta, sauce, and cheese, set them on a tray along with two glasses of water (wine would be nice, but we’re fresh out), and carry it all outside. Boone follows me, carrying the folded quilt over his arm.
We pick a spot in the yard not too far from the cabin, a patch of soft grass under a wide expanse of sky. The sun is setting, painting the horizon in bright pinks and blood oranges, and the first stars are just beginning to glimmer. Boone spreads the quilt out, and I place the tray in the center.
He takes one last look around, like he’s scouting for threats. Then he sits down beside me, crossing his long legs. Even in the dimming light, I can see the weariness etched into his features—shadows under his eyes, a tightness around his mouth. Yet, when he looks at me, there’s a warmth too, a kindness I crave more than I want to admit.
“Smells good,” he says, picking up his fork.
“Thanks,” I reply, a small bubble of pride swelling in my chest. “It’s nothing fancy, just something quick I used to make at the shop. But I used to put pepperoni on it to make it pizza-esque.”
He laughs softly, and for a moment, I bask in the sound of his quiet laughter. We start eating, and I’m amazed at how just being outdoors, under the open sky, makes everything feel lighter. The lake is a dark mirror reflecting the twilight, and a gentle breeze rustles the pines.
We eat in companionable silence for a while, until the stars fully emerge overhead—tiny pinpricks of light in a vast indigo canvas. I can’t help but tilt my head back and gaze at them. The hush of the night is mesmerizing, and for a few seconds, I almost forget the danger that brought us here.
Boone sets his plate aside. “You grew up around here, didn’t you?” he asks softly.
“Sort of,” I say, drawing my legs up under me. “I was born in Nashville. My mom moved us to Saint Pierce for a while so she could be closer to my grandparents. But I always loved Tennessee. Couldn’t stay away for long. Plus, I was obsessed with pizza from, like, middle school onward, so I guess it was destiny to open my own place.”
He smiles in the faint light. “Obsessed with pizza, huh?”
“Completely.” A little chuckle escapes me. “You have no idea. In high school, my friends used to call me ‘Brie-cheese.’ Like Aubree, Bree, and well…”
He arches an eyebrow. “Brie-cheese?”
I groan, but I can’t help smiling at the memory. “Yeah. They said it was because I would literally put cheese on anything—sandwiches, salads, even scrambled eggs. Mozzarella was my favorite, but I wasn’t picky. If it was cheese, I wanted it.”
Boone rubs his chin, the scratch of his beard just audible. “So wait, how exactly did that translate to them calling you Brie-cheese?”
“I guess because whenever we ordered pizza, I’d always demand extra cheese,” I explain, rolling my eyes at my younger self. “It became a running joke. At some point, one of them said, ‘We don’t even need to ask what Aubree wants—just slap on the extra cheese. Brie-cheese. And it stuck.”
He chuckles, a low rumble that warms me from the inside. “All right, Brie-cheese, that’s pretty adorable.”