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)
“So, tell me something about you,” she says after a while, breaking the silence. She looks at me over her cup of coffee, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Where are you from? You don’t strike me as a small-town kind of guy.”
I set my fork down, leaning back in my chair. I know she’s just making small talk, but it’s a fair question. “I’m from a place called Pine Ridge. Small town, just like this one, actually. But I left when I was eighteen, joined the Marines. Spent a lot of time overseas.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I can tell she’s interested. “Tell me more about the Marines.”
“Yeah?” I ask, pushing my plate aside. “I was a Marine Raider for a few years. That was... well, it was intense. A lot of traveling, a lot of danger. But it shaped me. Taught me what I wanted to do with my life. I left when I got tired of fighting, you know? But being a Marine gave me the skills I use now. The discipline, the focus. It’s all part of it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing that, before she asks, “What was it like?”
“Hard. Really hard,” I say, my voice quieting slightly as I think back to those days. “But it was worth it. It taught me how to handle pressure, how to think on my feet. I’ve been through some shit, but I wouldn’t change it.”
She nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “I bet. Sounds like it was life-changing.”
“It was,” I admit. “And that’s why I do what I do now. I protect people. Make sure they stay safe. It’s what I’m good at.”
She’s quiet for a long time, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I can see that,” she says softly. Then, after a pause, she adds, “I don’t know if I’m cut out for something like that. My life’s... simpler.”
“Sometimes simple’s all you need,” I reply, keeping my tone easy, though a part of me wonders what she means by that. What’s her life been like?
She seems to sense my curiosity. “I don’t have a lot of friends,” she says, looking down at her hands. “My mom’s really the only person I can count on. She’s kind of my best friend. I’ve always been kind of a loner.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Your mom?”
She looks up, a small smile on her lips. “Yeah. She’s been there for me through everything. She’s the one who convinced me to open the pizza shop. I guess that’s part of why it means so much to me. I don’t know... I don’t really let other people in.”
I lean back in my chair, the weight of her words hitting me harder than I expected. “That’s not a bad thing. You don’t have to let everyone in.”
She looks at me, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t let anyone in either, do you?”
I smile, but there’s no humor in it. “Guess you could say that. I’m not really the sharing type.”
She laughs softly. “I can tell.”
I look down at my watch and check the time, realizing it’s getting late. “We should head to town. We’re running low on supplies. Let’s get you some things for the cabin.”
She nods and stands up, stretching. “You’re right. I need to pick up a few things myself.”
I walk to the door, holding it open for her as she heads out. “All right, let’s go then.”
The drive to the store is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. She’s sitting beside me, her presence a calm, steady force in the truck. I steal a quick glance at her as I drive, noticing how she’s humming along to the radio, the smallest hint of a smile on her face. It’s a good look on her.
We get to the store, and as we walk inside, I’m acutely aware of her beside me. There’s something about her that’s easy to be around, and I’m not sure what to do with that. But for now, it’s enough.
Chapter 8
Aubree
The air smells fresh as we walk into the store, the crisp scent of pine trees and the faint whiff of something sugary from the bakery section. I can’t help but feel a little out of place, like I’m a world away from my pizza shop in Nashville, surrounded by the calm and stillness of Boone’s cabin. But here I am, wandering the aisles with Boone in tow, looking for whatever supplies we’ll need to get through the next few days. It’s a strange feeling, this mix of tension and peace, and I’m not sure how to process it all.
We’re standing in the canned goods aisle when I spot him—a familiar face I didn’t expect to see here. Hank.
I freeze for a moment, staring at him as he pushes his cart down the aisle. He’s one of the regulars at the pizza shop—always orders the same thing: a large meat lover’s pizza, extra cheese. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t say much but likes to linger at the counter, always asking me how the shop is doing, offering unsolicited advice about how I should “run the place better.” He’s a handyman from town, a big guy with a thick beard and arms that look like they could lift anything. But there’s something about seeing him here, so far from Nashville, that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.