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)
I close my eyes, torn between frustration and a sliver of relief. Honestly, part of me wants to hole up somewhere far away from this chaos. But the other part—the one that’s poured seven years of sweat and tears into Slice Slice Baby—can’t imagine walking away, even for a few days. What if I lose customers? What if employees quit? My mind reels with worst-case scenarios.
But my mother is steadfast. And the image of that brick, plus the hateful note scrawled on it, is still burned into my brain. A cold shiver works its way down my spine.
“I just can’t afford it,” I finally say, rubbing my forehead. It’s not a promise, and I can practically hear Mom gearing up for a lecture.
Yet, with each passing second, the idea of leaving sounds less like a betrayal of my dream and more like survival. Maybe Boone Porter’s right—maybe shutting down for a bit and going somewhere safe is the only way to keep this from spiraling out of control.
I hate it. But I’m starting to realize that my life might depend on it. And that’s a thought I never expected to have about my little slice of pizza heaven.
“I’ll pay your bills. It’s worth it to keep you safe.”
“Mom, you can’t be serious,” I say, my voice getting louder with each word, echoing in the tiny office space. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, and I rub at a sudden tension in my neck.
“I am, Aubree,” Mom insists. I can practically hear her pacing around her kitchen, the way she always does when she’s worried. “What happens next time if that brick hits you instead of the window?”
A shudder runs through me. I’ve been trying not to imagine that particular scenario, but her words spark the image in my mind. Still, I straighten my spine and set my jaw. “I can’t close the shop. This place is how I pay my bills. You know that.”
“I’ll pay for it,” she says again, matter-of-factly. She’s never been one to beat around the bush. And I know she can afford it—my parents aren’t hurting financially. But I’ve spent years proving I could stand on my own two feet. The idea of taking their money feels like a step backwards.
“Mom, I can’t ask you for that,” I protest softly. My eyes flick to the dented filing cabinet in the corner, stuffed with receipts and paperwork that prove how hard I’ve worked to get Slice Slice Baby off the ground.
“You’re not asking,” she replies, her tone as sharp as the glass shards still scattered at the front of my shop. “I’m telling you, Aubree. You go with this security man and you listen to him. Do what he says.”
I exhale, my breath coming out shaky. If I keep arguing, I know it’ll lead to a full-blown fight, and the last thing I need right now is more stress. “Fine,” I manage, even though it feels like I’m choking on the word. My cheeks burn at the thought of walking out there and telling Boone he was right. There goes my pride, tossed in the trash along with the shattered window shards.
“Thank you, sweetie,” Mom says, relief evident in her voice. “Call me as soon as you’re settled, okay?”
“Sure,” I mumble. We exchange our goodbyes, and once she hangs up, I stare at the phone for a moment, my heart racing. This is really happening. I’m about to abandon my shop—even if it’s just for a little while.
I drag a hand through my hair and grab a few essentials from the office: my laptop, some paperwork, and a small duffel I keep hidden under the desk for emergencies. I never thought the emergency would be a legitimate threat on my life, but here we are.
A few moments later, I steel my shoulders and head out to the front of the shop. The dining area looks eerily deserted: chairs stacked on tables, the lingering aroma of pizza sauce.
“Thank you so much, Stuart,” I say softly. My gaze travels around the mess. “We’re going to be closed for a few days while they fix the window and figure out who’s behind all of this.”
Stuart’s brow furrows, but he nods. “Right, okay. Let me know when you need me back. I can come in any time—school’s almost out for the summer, so my schedule’s wide open.” He picks up his worn-out backpack from behind the counter. “Stay safe, Aubree.”
I give him a grateful smile as he leaves, watching him unlock his bike from the rack outside. When I turn back, Boone is setting the hammer down on the counter, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. Even with tension running high, I can’t help but notice the easy strength in his broad shoulders, and the way his dark beard shifts when he breathes.