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)
A few minutes later, I’m rolling out the dough into a circular shape, sprinkling cornmeal on the counter so it won’t stick. That’s when I hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. I glance up to find him standing in the doorway, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.
“How’s it going?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my heart thumps in my chest.
He slips the phone into his back pocket. “Pretty good,” he says, gesturing at my dough. “You, uh… making a new masterpiece there?”
My eyebrows lift. “I hope so. It’s a new recipe I’ve been playing around with—sun-dried tomatoes, caramelized onions, fresh basil, and a sprinkle of goat cheese. Once it’s out of the oven, we’ll see if it’s a masterpiece or a disaster.”
He smiles faintly, but there’s tension around his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’ve got that pizza magic, after all.”
I laugh, though I’m sure he’s just trying to distract me. I keep my voice light. “Is that what you and Dean were talking about on the phone? My pizza magic?”
Boone’s face shutters for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to dodge the question. “Nah,” he says eventually, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. “We were just going over some intel. Nothing major. So, how much longer on that dough?”
He’s deflecting, and I know it. But I also sense he’s not ready to share. I think about pushing him on it for a split second, but decide not to. I’d rather not force a confrontation when I’m not sure I’m ready for the answers. So I play along. “It’s pretty much done,” I say, nodding at the flattened circle of dough. “I’ll top it now and let the oven preheat.”
Boone nods, relief flickering in his gaze. “Great. I’m starved.”
“Then I’ll get right to it,” I reply, dabbing a bit of sauce onto the dough. I spread it in concentric circles, marveling at how easily I slip into my old habits, the ones I used every day at Slice Slice Baby. I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for my little shop, even though it’s also tied to memories of fear and threats.
Boone hovers behind me, and I can practically feel his warmth. “Need help?” he offers.
“Sure,” I say, handing him the container of goat cheese. “Sprinkle this on top, but go easy. Goat cheese is strong.”
He sets to work, carefully scattering crumbles of cheese over the sauce. I add the onions, the sun-dried tomatoes, and a drizzle of olive oil. The smell is already divine, and I’m not even done yet.
“You’re gonna spoil me,” he says, a teasing note in his voice. “After this, how am I supposed to go back to normal people’s food?”
I grin, flashing him a sidelong glance. “Guess you’ll have to keep me around, huh?”
He stills for a moment, then recovers by chuckling softly. “Guess so,” he murmurs, a hint of seriousness in his tone.
The moment stretches between us, and I sense it’s one we should talk about—what happens when all this is over. But instead, I set my jaw and slide the pizza onto a baking sheet, then slip it into the oven. “All right, that’ll take about fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Smells amazing already,” he says, his gaze lingering on me rather than the oven. I feel a tingle of awareness run up my spine as our eyes lock.
I clear my throat, drawing my attention back to tidying up. “Let’s clean up. Then we can eat.”
“Sure.”
We work side by side, washing the utensils and wiping down the counters. The conversation stays light—he asks me about how I first started experimenting with recipes at Slice Slice Baby, and I ask him about his favorite meals growing up. He mentions that in his military days, “favorite meals” were often just rations that didn’t taste awful, and I snort a laugh.
When the timer beeps, I open the oven, releasing a wave of fragrant heat. The pizza crust is golden brown at the edges, the cheese melted and lightly browned in spots. My mouth waters, and I hear Boone inhale sharply. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “If that tastes half as good as it looks, I’m gonna be in heaven.”
I slide the pizza onto a cutting board, slice it into wedges, and set the pieces on two plates. We carry them into the small dining area—really just a table by the window—and settle in. The first bite is pure bliss. The tang of the goat cheese melds with the sweetness of the caramelized onions and the intensity of the sun-dried tomatoes, all riding on a perfectly crispy crust. I’m almost proud enough to forget the heaviness lingering in the air.
“This is incredible,” Boone mumbles around a mouthful of pizza.
I offer a small smile. “Thanks. It’s not the same as using the huge ovens at the shop, but it’ll do.”