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)
The question makes me set down the dough. “I’m okay.” I swallow, forcing myself to speak the truth. “I miss Boone. A lot.”
She nods, stepping closer and placing a hand on my arm. “Have you two talked recently?”
“Every night,” I say with a half-laugh, hearing how pathetic I must sound. “We call, sometimes just for a few minutes, sometimes an hour or more. But it’s so… different. Not seeing him every day, or waking up to his face, or even hearing him humming while he checks the locks ten times in a row.”
Her expression softens. “You’ll figure it out. He cared about you—anyone could see that.”
I let out a shaky breath, glancing down at the flour dusting my fingertips. “I know. He says he’s trying to arrange work in Nashville, some reason to come out this way. But that could take time.”
“Sweetheart,” my mother says gently, “you deserve to be happy. If Boone makes you happy, then… make a plan. A visit, at least. You’re not stuck in Nashville, you know. You can take a weekend and go to Saint Pierce to see him.”
I look up at her, startled by the suggestion. “I guess that’s possible,” I say, cheeks warming at the thought of surprising Boone, showing up at his place in Saint Pierce with a pizza in hand and a big grin. “I just… it’s busy here. We’re trying to recover from everything, and—”
She pats my arm. “Honey, life is always going to be busy. And so is his. You have to carve out time for the things that matter.”
I sigh, turning back to the dough. Carefully, I ladle sauce onto the crust, spreading it in smooth, practiced circles. “I’ll think about it,” I promise. “It’s only been a week since I got back, you know. We’re still trying to fix the back door and restock the supplies, and the high school crowd has been insane. It’s just… I get so tired at the end of the day.”
Mom nods, stepping over to help me sprinkle cheese onto the sauce. “You are doing so well, though. Don’t sell yourself short. The customers love your new Safe Haven pizza, and everyone’s been eager to support the shop after what happened.” She hesitates, then lowers her voice. “How are you holding up with everything else? Charles still…?”
“Still in custody,” I reply, blinking hard to ward off any hint of tears. “The police say they have enough to keep him there for a while. There’s no bail. And if he does manage to wiggle out, we have a restraining order. Plus, all of Maddox Security is on alert. If he tries anything, they’ll know.”
She nods, relief evident in her eyes. “Good. I can’t believe I ever… ever trusted that man. But at least we’re done with him.” She sets down the cheese, straightening up. “And you, my love, can finally get back to making your life what you want it to be.”
I finish assembling the pizza with a flourish—pepperoni, mushrooms, and a sprinkle of fresh basil. “This is the life I want,” I murmur, sliding the pizza onto a sheet pan. “Mostly. I just… I wish Boone was here, too.”
My mom squeezes my shoulder. “Have faith, honey. Sometimes the best things in life are worth a little distance and a little waiting.”
I swallow, nodding. “Yeah,” I say softly, lifting the tray and heading toward the oven. I slide it in, and the heat blasts my face. The comforting smell of rising dough fills the room. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the familiarity of it ground me.
A little while later, I stand at the front counter, greeting the regulars who file in for their early dinner slices. The buzz of conversation spills through the glass door as high school students shuffle in, already trying to figure out where to sit. My heart lifts at the sight—this is the kind of normal I’ve craved for so long.
Stuart mans the register, flashing me a grin whenever we share a glance. He’s settled back into his old rhythm, joking with customers about the new specialty pizzas and teasing them if they don’t like olives (like he does with every single olive-hater, bless him).
The day zips by, full of orders and laughter and the occasional kitchen mishap. Once or twice, I catch a glimpse of my phone on the counter and wonder if Boone will text me something sweet, like he usually does around this time of day. But it stays silent.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted, but in that good, productive way. Stuart waves goodbye, promising to come in early tomorrow. Mom offers to stay and close with me, but I insist I can handle it, so she heads home.
I linger at the front, turning off a few lights and locking the door. The neon “open” sign goes dark with a soft click. The quiet hum of the fridge motors in the background as I gather up any stray trash and check the tables.