Chapter 11 The not-bread bread fiasco
THE NOT-brEAD brEAD FIASCO
IZZY
I cannot get that text out of my head.
It's just an AI. A fictional thing. A distraction, like Amanda said. Nothing to be obsessing over while trying to complete actual work tasks. But that hasn't stopped my mind from drifting back to it every few minutes.
Holy hell, Amanda. Way to ratchet up the heat level immediately.
I swear, the woman has zero chill. Not that I expected her to, but still.
A gradual build-up would have been nice.
Maybe a few more conversations before she decided to kick down the door and introduce me to a whole new world of computer-generated filth.
The text she sent was so explicit I'm surprised my phone didn't burst into flames.
I looked at the text once. Then I typed something about it being a mistake. Then I closed the app. I know Caleb responded—because he's programmed to. But I haven't had the guts to look at it yet, the notification sitting unread on my phone.
At first, I didn't want to. Then, as the day dragged on, I very much wanted to.
The curiosity grew steadily more distracting by the hour.
But between the sheer number of corporate emails trying to suck the soul from my body and the absolute nightmare that is sales planning for holiday season, I managed to stay just distracted enough to resist opening the app again.
I even got through a three-hour meeting with corporate to go over the finalized holiday forecast without completely losing my mind.
My eyes glazed over around the time they started discussing projected foot traffic patterns, but I nodded at all the right moments and took enough notes to seem engaged.
And somehow, miraculously, I'm actually leaving on time today.
Which is so rare that I almost don't know what to do with myself.
I head toward the exit, so lost in my thoughts that I almost run straight into a wall of muscle.
Again.
Correction: Callahan.
Again.
I stumble back, flustered, blinking up at him.
He raises a brow, amused. "We've got to stop meeting like this."
I groan, already recovering, already annoyed. "Maybe you should stop being built like a brick wall."
"Not my fault you're the one always walking into me."
I scowl, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Not my fault you're always in my way."
The expression on his face tells me he’s clearly more entertained than he should be.
Which, considering he’s literally in charge of catching criminals, is kind of insulting. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, softening his usual stoic edge.
He shifts slightly, eyes scanning my face like he's considering something, then nods toward the hallway. "You got a second? I wanted to go over my plan for beefing up security before the holiday rush."
I open my mouth to give some kind of half-hearted excuse, but then I look at him.
Really look at him.
His striking green eyes give nothing away, but still make me feel completely exposed.
His ridiculous broad shoulders, the way he carries himself like he's in control of every room he steps into.
The strong angles of his face, the slight shadow of stubble that's appeared since this morning. And suddenly, I don't want to leave.
I want to stay.
I want to sit in that conference room with him and listen to his deep, steady voice as he lays out his plans. I want to watch his forearms flex when he gestures. I want to see if I can coax that infuriatingly sexy half-smile out of him again.
And nope. NOPE.
This is not good.
This is Amanda's fault.
This is the AI's fault.
This is my fault for programming a damn chatbot that looks like Callahan and now I'm mixing them up in my head. The lines are blurring, and it's dangerous territory I don't need to be exploring. Not when I have a boyfriend. Even if said boyfriend hasn't truly seen me in months.
I need to get out of here.
My phone chimes, the sound cutting through my internal crisis.
I shake myself out of whatever trouble my brain was wandering into, and pull it out of my pocket, fully expecting to see a message from Caleb. My heart beats a little faster at the thought.
Except... it's not.
I grimace.
It's Evan.
Meet me for dinner? I have something special to talk to you about.
I furrow my brow, already suspicious. My thumb hovers over the screen as I read the message twice.
Evan and I do not do spontaneous dinner plans. He usually spends weeks planning everything out way in advance, his calendar a sacred tome that cannot be violated without serious consequences.
The back of my neck prickles with wariness. Then I look back at Callahan, who's waiting patiently for my response, his expression neutral but attentive. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Looks like I've got a last-minute meeting I have to catch."
For a split second, I swear I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes—a brief crack in his composed exterior revealing he actually wanted me to say yes.
But then it's gone. His expression smooths out into his usual calm, unreadable mask.
He nods once. "Understood."
I try not to feel bad about it, not to be bothered that he immediately shut down whatever that moment was. But the small pang of regret in my chest suggests otherwise.
He glances at my still-full water bottle, the one from this morning's meeting. "Drink that. And make sure you eat dinner."
I pause, momentarily thrown. Normally, when someone threatens my coffee habit, I tell them where they can go. But, instead, I smile, and words of agreement quite literally fall out of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."
And with that, I turn and head toward the exit, trying very hard not to think about how much of me wishes I were staying.
Evan's car is already waiting outside when I step out of the store.
Which, honestly, is insane.
Owning a car in New York is one thing. Owning a car when you live in the heart of the city and are paying more for a parking spot than most people pay for rent? Completely deranged behavior. But there it sits, a black BMW, gleaming under the streetlights.
But Evan is Evan, so of course he has a car.
I slide into the passenger seat and am barely buckled in before he pulls away from the curb.
"Where are we going?" I ask, glancing over at him. His profile is sharp against the city lights, his attention focused on the road ahead.
He shrugs, eyes not leaving the road. "Thought I'd take you to dinner."
I pause, thrown by the casualness of his statement. It doesn’t match his usual carefully planned approach to everything. "Like... just us?"
"Yeah. Just us. Unless your perfume counts as a third passenger. It’s practically fogging up the windows."
I don’t respond. Just press my lips together and turn toward the window, suddenly aware of the scent clinging to my skin. The one I’d spritzed on twice before leaving, stupidly wanting to feel pretty.
My eyebrows lift despite myself, suspicion creeping through me.
Because Evan does not do spontaneous dinner dates. Evan does networking dinners, business meetings over overpriced steaks, brunches with people who are somehow both named Chad. His social calendar is a carefully orchestrated dance of connections and impressions.
But this? Just us?
It's enough to make me wonder if maybe I've been the problem all along.
Maybe he is being sweet, and I just haven't been noticing.
Maybe I'm the one who's been too checked out.
I need to stop overanalyzing and just...
appreciate the moment. Let him be thoughtful.
The city lights blur past the window as we drive, casting patterns of light and shadow across the car's interior.
Then we pull up to the restaurant. And I immediately know I should have trusted my instincts.
The place is too clean, too aesthetic. There's a massive living wall covered in greenery, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a literal juice bar at the front.
The sign glows with a minimalist font that screams "we charge $20 for a smoothie. "
It's a health food place.
I resist the urge to bang my head against the window.
Don't jump to conclusions, Izzy. Maybe it's fine. Maybe he just wanted to try a new cuisine. Maybe this isn't going to be exactly like the last time he did this.
The last time he took me to a "cool new restaurant" and then blindsided me with an entire dinner featuring a personal trainer who thought I was signing up for something called a Tough Mudder. I spent the whole evening nodding along while quietly plotting my escape.
I take a deep breath, the cool evening air doing little to calm my rising dread.
Don't assume. Be open-minded. Maybe he's just being nice.
We step inside, the smell of wheatgrass immediately assaulting my nostrils.
The interior is all clean lines and neutral tones, with Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and plants strategically placed in every corner.
The clientele all seem to be wearing athleisure while discussing their latest spin class.
I want to leave.
Instead, I let Evan lead me to a table. The second we sit down, he doesn't even let me look at the menu.
Just orders for both of us like this is the 1950s and I have the right to vote but not to choose my own meal.
The waitress nods approvingly before disappearing, and I just blink at him, trying to process what is happening.
"You're really going for the full experience, huh?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
He barely glances at me, already reaching for his phone. "You never know what to get anyway."
That's not true. It's just that everything here looks like it was designed to be chewed by people who actively enjoy the taste of misery.
The menu is full of ingredients I can't pronounce and preparations that seem unnecessarily complicated.
I glance around at the entirely too curated, kale-heavy aesthetic.
The waitress comes back and sets down a small basket of bread.
Except it's not bread.
"Enjoy," she says brightly. "It's sprouted, fermented, grain-free—full of plant protein."
I don't understand a single word she just said. But I am hungry. I reach for a piece, my stomach growling in anticipation. And that's when Evan's hand clamps over mine, his grip firm and cold.
"You don't need that," he says, calm, firm, dismissive.
I stare at him, my hand frozen beneath his. "Evan, it's not even bread. You heard the waitress. It's, like... sprouted beans or something."
He sighs, shaking his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand basic concepts. "Izzy. No. What about your goals?"
I blink.
Then I blink again.
I don't know what happens, but a dam breaks inside me. A rush of frustration that's been building for months suddenly threatens to overflow.
I pull my hand back, crossing my arms. "What about my goals, Evan?"
His eyes dart around the restaurant, like he's already embarrassed by this conversation. Like I'm making a scene by simply questioning him.
He leans forward slightly. "Don’t get the way you get."
My appetite vanishes, replaced by a hollow feeling in my chest. I sit back, staring at him, suddenly so, so tired. Our relationship—the accumulation of quiet disappointments—settles over me.
"What's the big surprise, Evan?" I ask, voice flat.
He exhales dramatically. "Well, now you ruined the night."
I’m incredulous. "I ruined the night? By trying to eat a piece of not-bread-bread at a restaurant you brought me to?"
He gives me a look, like I'm being dramatic. "It's your attitude, Izzy. That's what ruined it."
I laugh, no humor in it. The sound is hollow, echoing the emptiness I feel.
"Just say what you were going to say," I tell him. "Or don't. I don't care."
His eyes darken slightly, but he sits up straighter. "The owner of this place is also a nutritionist," he says, like this is supposed to be impressive. "I hired them to help you with your diet."
I just stare. I wait for him to laugh, to say it's a joke, that he isn't actually doing this.
But he doesn't.
He just looks at me expectantly.
Like I should be grateful. Like this is the best gift he could possibly give me—professional help to fix what he sees as my greatest flaw.
Like I should thank him for pointing out, yet again, that my body doesn't meet his standards.
A slow, simmering anger rises in my chest. For a brief moment, I think I'm finally going to say something.
I think I'm going to tell him off, to tell him exactly what I think about him treating me like I'm some kind of problem he needs to fix.
The words build in my throat, a pressure seeking release.
But then he gives me that look. The one that says there's no arguing with him on this. The one that says if I fight back, he'll just twist it around until somehow, it's my fault. And maybe he's right.
Maybe working with a nutritionist won't be so bad. Maybe I do need to be better about my diet. Maybe I am overreacting. I swallow back everything I want to say, shrug my shoulders, and say, "Okay."
Evan smiles, like this is proof that he was right all along. Then, like clockwork, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. The waitress comes back, setting down some kind of kale dish that looks like it was blended with despair and garnished with disappointment.
I take one bite.
It tastes like grass.
I chew.
I swallow.
And I tell myself not to cry.