Guarding What’s Mine (Men of Maddox Security #3)

Chapter 2

Aubree

“One more pie and then we’re done for the day,” Stuart calls out, brushing a stray lock of sandy-blond hair away from his forehead. I can’t help but smile. If I could clone this kid, I totally would. He’s only a teenager, but I swear he’s got more hustle and heart than some of the grown-ups I’ve hired and fired.

“Let’s make it the best pizza Earl’s ever had,” I say, rinsing off a ladle before tucking the last container of sauce into the fridge. The clang of metal and the sweet tang of tomatoes fill the air. I never get tired of that smell.

Earl’s one of our regulars—he’s been coming to Slice Slice Baby since the day I opened the doors. Seven years ago, my mom convinced me that a pizza joint next to the high school was the perfect idea. And boy, was she right. Every lunchtime and after every football game, we’re flooded with hungry teens and their parents, clamoring for a slice of something cheesy and delicious.

Not that it was easy getting here. Sometimes I think my blood might actually be marinara at this point, considering how many hours I’ve put into this place. I’ve cried over everything from supplier issues to broken ovens. But after all the tears, I’m proud to say Slice Slice Baby is my life’s work—and my absolute pride and joy.

“Dough’s the key,” I murmur, watching Stuart work his magic. He’s kneading that dough like it personally offended him, which is exactly how I taught him. “If the crust isn’t perfect, the pizza won’t be perfect.”

I’ve got a little secret to make sure our crust stands above the rest: I ship in water from a natural spring in Montana. Crazy? Maybe. Over-the-top? Definitely. But it’s the only way I can recreate that same crisp and airy crust every single time. And if you ask me, it’s worth every penny.

I also ship in the best flour from Italy. Organic tomatoes from California. And I only use the best products.

Okay, so my pizza isn’t exactly famous yet—there aren’t any shiny trophies lining the walls. Still, I dare anyone in Tennessee to find a better slice. Someday, I’m hoping to snag a few awards to prove my pizza prowess once and for all.

Stuart finishes stretching out the dough and starts layering on the sauce and cheese. He’s done this a thousand times, but I still hover behind him, making sure each swipe of sauce looks just right.

“This is Earl’s order, yeah?” I ask.

“Yep,” Stuart replies. “Pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra black olives.”

“Right. Extra is good, but let’s toss on a few more, just in case,” I say with a grin. Earl loves his olives—every time, he insists I dump half a can on his pie. “Let’s really blow his mind.”

Stuart snickers and sprinkles on more of the salty black orbs. “Sure thing, boss.”

I watch him work, feeling a rush of fondness for this little pizza family I’ve built. We might not be the biggest pizzeria in town, but we’ve got heart—and, in my humble opinion, the best crust in the entire state.

Once Stuart slides the pie into the oven, I’m already imagining Earl’s delight when he cracks open the box. Moments like that—seeing the joy my pizzas bring—are why I keep fighting the good fight…dough under my nails, sauce stains on my apron, and a smile on my face.

Sometimes I wonder if this is exactly what I was born to do: feed people, make them happy, and maybe give them a delicious memory or two. After all, if you can’t find joy in a gooey slice of pizza, are you really living?

“Thanks for a great day,” I say, patting Stuart on the back. “Now let’s finish strong and get this bad boy to Earl. Then we can finally call it quits.”

With the final pizza baking, I take one last glance around the shop—at the red-checkered tablecloths, the cheesy pizza-themed décor, and the high school kids laughing as they walk out the door after getting their orders. It’s all mine, and even on the hardest days, it’s totally worth it.

I smile as I make my way toward the back of Slice Slice Baby, weaving through the kitchen and into my cramped little office. It’s more like a glorified closet with a desk, but I cherish every corner of this place. Settling into my squeaky office chair, I boot up my computer to run the end-of-day reports. My eyes land on the inbox, and my stomach twists the second I notice an unread email from an address I don’t recognize.

Great. Probably another spammy message, I think, though unease prickles at the back of my neck. For the past few months, my inbox has been a minefield. A little voice in my head whispers that this might not be spam—it could be the latest threat from whoever’s been targeting me. I feel my breath hitch, but before I can even click on it, a thunderous crash echoes from the front of the pizzeria.

My heart plunges into my stomach. “Stuart?” I call, launching out of my seat.

I sprint across the kitchen, flinging open the swinging doors that lead to the dining area. The entire space is littered with shards of broken glass. My eyes land on Stuart, who’s standing near the front window, looking more than a little rattled.

“I’m okay,” he assures me hastily, though his voice wavers. “Everything’s okay.”

I step closer, taking in the horrifying sight. Our big front window is shattered, and a cold draft whips through the shop. “What happened?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

Stuart moves toward me, clutching a brick in his hands. “I think…it’s a brick,” he says, his expression unsure, like he’s still trying to process it.

I gingerly sidestep the glass crunching under my sneakers. “Be careful,” I warn, quickly checking him over. No cuts, thank goodness. Then I notice something else: a piece of paper wrapped around the brick, held by a rubber band.

Stuart extends the brick. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, guilt pooling in his eyes.

I take it from him, carefully sliding off the note. My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper. Two words stare back at me in thick black marker: Die bitch.

I swallow hard, my vision blurring with tears. I refuse to cry in front of Stuart—he’s only a teenager, and I’m supposed to be the adult holding it all together.

Suddenly, Earl, my most loyal customer, appears in the doorway, clearly alarmed. “Oh my God, what happened?” He rushes over, and I silently hand him the note. The expression on his face darkens as he reads the words. “I’m calling the police,” he says, already dialing on his phone.

Before I can protest, Stuart gasps. “Earl, your pizza!” He dashes behind the counter and flings open the oven door, pulling out Earl’s order. Smoke puffs around him, and the smell of toasted cheese mingles with the metallic scent of broken glass.

Earl waves him off. “Don’t worry about that.” Phone pressed to his ear, he rattles off details to the 9-1-1 operator. Meanwhile, I’m still standing in the center of shattered glass, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

The threats started three months ago—anonymous emails, weird phone calls at odd hours, stuff that made me anxious but never truly scared. At first, they were mild: telling me I should ‘watch my back,’ or claiming they didn’t like my pizza (which, obviously, is a crime in and of itself). Over time, though, they’ve become bolder and more hateful.

My mom has been insisting for weeks that I hire professional security, going so far as to use her credit cards to snag “the best money could buy,” in her words. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of having a bodyguard—who wants to feel like a criminal in their own pizza shop? But tonight’s incident changes everything. I can’t deny it anymore: I’m not safe, and neither is anyone around me.

I take a shaky breath and look at Stuart, who’s staring at me with worried eyes, and at Earl, who’s doing his best to calmly explain the situation to the police. My pizzeria, my safe haven—it’s all under threat. And as much as I hate to admit it, maybe my mom was right. Maybe I do need help…someone to protect me until we figure out who’s behind these threats.

Brushing away an errant tear, I steel myself. First, I need to clean up this mess and make sure Stuart and Earl are okay. Then I’ll call my mom and let her know she was right—about everything. If it means keeping Slice Slice Baby safe, I’ll swallow my pride and deal with a security detail. Because no matter what, I won’t let some faceless coward run me out of my own life.

A man with a deep, gravelly voice steps into the pizzeria, stopping short when he sees the shards of broken glass littering the floor. “What happened here?” he demands, scanning the room like he’s expecting a battle at any second.

Earl, my loyal customer, tucks his phone away. “Are you with the police?”

The newcomer shakes his head, flashing a badge that reads Maddox Security. “I’m Boone Porter.” His gaze swings between Earl and me, narrowing slightly before his voice rumbles, “I’m looking for an Aubree Ryan.”

“That’s me.” I hesitate for a split second, then take a step closer. My heart thuds in my chest as I lift my eyes to meet his. “Mr. Porter?”

He nods. “I’m with Maddox Security.” He’s not at all what I expected when my mother said she’d hired ‘top-notch’ security. He’s… well, gorgeous. He’s tall and broad in a way that makes him look built for protection—like the walls in this shop could cave in and he’d keep me safe from the rubble. His dark beard is thick and full, framing his jaw and making him appear a little dangerous. And his eyes—an intense, almost chocolate brown—feel like they’re boring straight into my soul.

I flush, remembering to breathe. The strangest thought flits across my mind: the sensation of that beard brushing against my skin, maybe somewhere far more intimate than I should be picturing in a moment like this. My face warms, and I give my hand a quick shake before I offer it to him.

When he takes my hand, his grip completely engulfs mine. It’s firm, controlled—just like the rest of him. I do my best to act normal, but my pulse is hammering like I’ve just run a marathon.

Stuart steps in, saving me from babbling. He recounts the entire story—how the brick came crashing through the window, how we found the note with that awful message. I stand off to the side, arms crossed over my chest, trying to keep from trembling. This is really happening. My safe, cozy pizza shop feels like ground zero for something horrible.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whisper under my breath. Earl moves beside me and slips an arm around my shoulders in comfort. That’s when Boone’s gaze snaps in our direction, his jaw clenching. I hear the low rumble of a growl slip from his lips, so quiet I almost wonder if I imagined it.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” Boone asks, directing his question pointedly at me. His eyes flick to Earl, then back to me.

“Oh, okay,” I manage. My voice sounds smaller than I’d like. I gently disentangle myself from Earl’s side-hug and follow Boone a few steps away, the broken glass crunching under my sneakers.

When we’re far enough from the others, Boone folds his muscular arms across his chest. “Who is that man?” he asks, tilting his head toward Earl.

I bite back a laugh. “Earl? He’s harmless. Just a regular customer—he’s been coming in since we opened.”

Boone sizes Earl up one last time before turning his intense gaze back on me. “You’re closing your shop for a few days.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me? No. I most certainly am not. This place is my livelihood.” I cross my arms, mirroring his posture without meaning to. “I can’t just shut it down.”

“You can, and you will.” His tone is final, almost like an order. “You’ll come with me to a safe house until Maddox Security can figure out what’s going on.”

A thousand protests surge to the tip of my tongue—how I need the income, how I can’t leave Stuart and my other employees without a job, how I hate the idea of abandoning my business. But that steely determination in his gaze tells me there’s no use arguing with him. Even if I do, I suspect he’ll just scoop me up and carry me out if he has to.

Well, he’ll have to carry me kicking and screaming.

“No. I’ll be staying right here,” I declare, crossing my arms over my chest as I stand in front of Boone. The smell of tomato sauce and pizza dough still lingers in the air. “Thank you very much,” I add, trying not to glare at him. “You can stand guard at the door if you want.”

Boone’s laugh is a deep rumble that makes the floor feel like it vibrates beneath my feet. “I’m not a bouncer,” he says, shaking his head. “This is a serious operation. You’re closing your shop.”

I plant a hand on my hip, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “Am not,” I shoot back. This is my pizza shop—my baby. I can’t just shut down and lose sales, possibly more. I still owe rent and have employees to pay.

Before I can argue further, a uniformed police officer steps through the door—carefully, because of the crunch of glass on the tile. His eyes pan across the mess. “Who’s in charge here?”

“I am,” Boone answers immediately, holding his hand out. “Boone Porter, Maddox Security.” His gruff voice and imposing stance say there’s no question about it.

“Um, excuse me?” My cheeks heat as I shove past him, refusing to be sidelined in my own shop. “I’m the owner,” I announce, taking the officer’s hand. “Aubree Ryan. This is my place.”

The officer’s gaze flicks from me to Boone, then back again. It’s obvious he’s not quite sure who to address. Finally, he clears his throat and settles on me. “Ma’am, can you tell me what happened here?”

We spend the next twenty minutes explaining how a brick came flying through the window and nearly scared the life out of everyone. Stuart recounts the moment he heard glass shatter and ducked behind the counter. Earl throws in a few comments about how fast it all happened, and about how he could’ve sworn he saw someone running down the street. Meanwhile, I do my best to stay composed, though my nerves are jangling like crazy.

During that time, Earl slips me his phone number on a scrap of napkin, insisting I call him if I need anything. I catch Boone shooting him a dark look. The second Earl steps away, Boone mutters something about “handing that number over,” but I shove it in my back pocket instead. Earl’s just trying to be nice—and, well, I’m not a big fan of being told what to do, even if Boone does have a commanding presence and gorgeous brown eyes.

When the police officer is done taking statements, he nods at me. “We’ll be in touch if we have any updates, Ms. Ryan.” Then he heads out, presumably to ask around the neighborhood.

With the help of Boone and Stuart, we manage to cover the gaping hole in the window using some old plywood I found in the storeroom from a previous renovation project. It’s not perfect—definitely not the charming vibe I usually aim for—but it’ll have to do until I can afford a proper replacement.

Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I retreat to my little office to breathe. My hands are shaking as I drop into my squeaky chair. The day was already stressful before this whole mess—now, I’m operating on fumes. I press my palms to my eyes, trying to ward off the headache I know is coming.

I glance at my inbox. The email. I click on it and suck in a deep breath. The message is simple: I’m coming for you.

I quickly shut the computer down and that’s when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen and see my mom’s number. Of course. Molly Hancock—the woman who sees everything from her vantage point at the hair salon next door—must have called her first chance she got.

“Mom?” I answer, my voice still shaky.

“Aubree, dear!” Mom’s frantic tone crackles over the line. “Molly said the police were at your pizza shop. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, trying for a reassuring note I don’t quite feel. “Someone threw a brick through the window, that’s all. We covered it up already. I promise, I’m okay.”

She lets out a sharp breath, like she’s trying not to panic. “Honey, that’s terrible. The man from Maddox Security—did he arrive? I know I paid a pretty penny, but it’s worth it if you’re safe.”

I lean my head back against the wall, already dreading this conversation. “Yes,” I huff. “He’s here, and he wants me to shut down the shop and go to a ‘safe house.’ Can you believe that? I can’t just close, Mom. I’d lose so much business—”

“I think that’s a good idea,” she cuts in, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care how much money you lose. Your safety is more important.”

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.

“Do you have everything you need to close for a while?” he asks, his brown eyes scanning me from head to toe as though he’s making sure I’m still in one piece.

My chest tightens. I’ve had my business threatened, my window smashed, and my entire life turned upside down in the span of a few hours. “I need to know one thing,” I say, my voice trying for calm but wavering slightly. “How long is ‘a while’? I can’t expect my mother to pay my bills indefinitely.”

Boone pauses, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets. “Uhh… shouldn’t be more than a week, give or take. The guys at Maddox Security are good at what they do. They’ll figure this out.”

“I can’t close longer than a week,” I say firmly, swallowing the lump in my throat. The mere idea of losing more than seven days of income makes me feel a little ill.

He arches a brow, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Well, that’s not exactly how this works. Security threats don’t usually come with deadlines.”

“It’s how I work,” I counter, lifting my chin in defiance. “I can’t close for longer than a week, Boone. Deal?” I thrust my hand out, the gesture as much of a challenge as it is a request.

He stares at me, and for a second, I worry he’ll flat-out refuse. But finally, he takes my hand in his large, calloused one. When his rough skin meets mine, a jolt of awareness shoots up my arm, startling me.

“Deal,” he says, his voice low.

We linger there, hand in hand. The air between us crackles with an unexpected tension I can’t quite name. This is the same man who strolled in here with a no-nonsense attitude and an order for me to shut everything down. Yet beneath that stern exterior, I sense something protective—maybe even kind. And I hate to admit it, but that tiny kernel of comfort is enough to make me suck in a shaky breath and hold steady.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” he says gently, releasing my hand. “I’ll fill you in on the rest of the plan once we’re on the road.”

I nod, though part of me wants to burst into tears at the idea of leaving my pizzeria behind, even if it’s just temporary. Still, I manage a small smile. Deep down, I know it’s the smart choice. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours, it’s that someone out there is serious about scaring me—or worse.

Walking away from Slice Slice Baby feels like leaving a piece of my heart behind. But with the chaos swirling around us, I’d rather take the risk of shutting down for a few days than risk my life—especially if it means I’ll be protected by a man who, despite his growling demeanor, might just be the shield I need right now.