Chapter 2
TWO
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.