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)
My breath catches. I haven’t entirely sorted out the answer for that question yet. Dean hasn’t assigned me a new job. Technically, I’m free to do whatever I want, so long as the danger to Aubree is resolved. And it is, isn’t it?
“We’ll figure it out,” I say quietly, pressing a reassuring kiss to her temple.
We stand here a moment longer, in the center of her shop, holding each other. The smell of fresh dough and tomato sauce seems to wrap around us like a promise of normalcy returning. Just a few days ago, we were hiding in a remote cabin, wondering if Charles would succeed in scaring her off for good. Now, with him behind bars and the shop still standing, the future feels open again.
Aubree clears her throat and lets go of me, though her hand slips down to entwine with mine. “So,” she says, voice still slightly shaky, “let’s start by making some pizza. I owe you a proper Slice Slice Baby pie, right?”
I chuckle, feeling a knot of tension unwind in my gut. “Damn right you do.”
She grins, leading me behind the counter, where her mother waits with a relieved smile. As we pass the row of ingredient bins, Aubree stares at them like she’s greeting old friends—pepperoni, olives, mushrooms. The dough mixer in the corner is silent for now, but I can already picture it whirring back to life under her skilled hands.
For the first time in weeks, I see her face light up with genuine excitement.
“Pizza?” she asks, meeting my gaze.
“Pizza,” I confirm.
Her mother lets out a small laugh, rolling up her sleeves. “Then let’s make the best damn pie this town has ever seen.”
It’s a fresh start—one she’s more than earned. And as I watch Aubree grab a ball of dough, a bright new confidence in her eyes, I know that whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out. Together. Because this time, there’s nothing left to run from.
Chapter 28
Aubree
It’s been a little over a week since I’ve been back in Nashville, and the rhythmic hum of Slice Slice Baby has come roaring back to life. At least, that’s how it seems on the surface. The ovens are running hot all day, the high school crowd is spilling in after last period, and the laughter of friends sharing slices fills the shop just like it always did.
But there’s a Boone-shaped hole in my life, and it’s bigger than I ever expected.
This morning starts like any other. Stuart and I roll out dough in the back kitchen, the clatter of pans and the thunk of the dough press keeping me grounded. He kneads with strong, practiced hands—an old soul in a eighteen-year-old’s body. I watch him with a little smile, remembering how unsure he was when I first hired him. Now, he’s practically my right-hand man.
“You doing okay today?” he asks, sliding a fresh ball of dough across the floured counter toward me. The flour puffs up in a little cloud, making me sneeze.
“I’m fine,” I say, sniffling. But Stuart raises an eyebrow in that telltale way. “Okay, so maybe I’m not fine, but I’m surviving,” I admit, exhaling as I start to shape the dough into a circle. “Business is good, we haven’t gotten any new threats, and people are pouring back in. So yeah, just… figuring out this new normal.”
He nods, pressing his hands against the dough. “Is it… you know, Boone?”
The mention of his name makes my chest clench. “You’re too perceptive for your own good,” I mutter, carefully spinning the circle of dough. When I look up, I see sympathy in Stuart’s gaze, and I offer a small smile. “I just miss him, you know? We talk every night, but it’s not the same.”
Stuart nods. “Long-distance sucks, huh?”
“Yeah,” I admit, pressing a thumb into the center of the dough to even it out. “But he has his life in Saint Pierce, and I have mine here.”
The door to the back kitchen swings open then, and my mom steps in, smelling faintly of that expensive perfume she’s always worn. She’s got a stack of newly printed menus in one hand—featuring our latest specialty pie, the “Safe Haven,” which is basically a love letter to the comfort food that got me through the worst weeks of my life.
“Honey,” she greets me, setting the menus on a nearby shelf. “I talked to one of the local paper’s food columnists. They might want to do a feature on Slice Slice Baby. You feeling up for that?”
“Really?” I say, my spirits lifting just a bit. “That’s amazing, Mom.”
She smiles warmly, her eyes flicking to Stuart. “Hello, Stuart. Good to see you.”
He nods, brushing flour from his hands. “Hey, Ms. Ryan.” He excuses himself, heading out to the front counter, presumably to let us talk in private.
My mom turns to me, her brow furrowing with concern. “How are you doing?”