Chapter 19
Nineteen
Caroline
The rejection email came just after breakfast. I’d actually wanted this job—operations mCarolineger at a new catering startup, with decent hours and a salary that would have put me solidly back in the middle class.
The message was polite, but you could see right through it. “We went with a candidate who better aligns with our growth vision.”
I almost deleted it without reading, but I made myself skim it twice. I sat in the kitchen, staring at my coffee, fighting the urge to cry. When I couldn’t stand the apartment any longer, I grabbed my purse and headed to Massimo’s.
The café was busy. I took my usual table by the window and tried to look busy on my phone, but my mind kept circling back to the rejection.
Noah spotted me, brought over my drink, and set it down with a little more force than usual.
“Rough day?” he asked, not bothering to hide his concern.
I shrugged, tried for a smile. “Just the usual.”
He studied me for a second, then said, “You want to get out of here for a bit?”
I blinked. “Now?”
He nodded. “The new kid can handle the counter. Come on.”
Before I knew it, I was in his SUV, riding shotgun as he drove to the city’s big farmers market. The sun was out, and every tent was bursting with flowers, herbs, and fresh produce.
Noah moved through the crowds like he’d been coming here for years. He picked up tomatoes, sniffed them, checked for ripeness. He let me pick out whatever looked good, even when I had no idea what to do with half the stuff.
We joked about vegetables, debated the merits of basil versus oregano, and taste-tested samples from every stand.
It felt easy. Effortless. For the first time since the divorce, I wasn’t thinking about Richard or what I’d lost. I was just… me.
We stopped at a bakery stall, and he bought two giant lemon tarts. We ate them standing up, juice dripping down our fingers, and I almost forgot I was supposed to be sad.
On the way home, he asked, “You cook?”
I shrugged. “I dabble.”
He grinned. “Let’s make dinner.”
We spent the afternoon in his apartment—a loft above the café, all clean lines and sunlight. We unpacked the groceries, poured wine, and got to work.
He showed me how to make pasta from scratch. We got flour everywhere, even in my hair, and when I laughed, he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
We talked about nothing and everything. He told me about the neighborhoods he grew up in, the teachers who shaped him, the one time he burned down a kitchen and had to call the fire department.
When the sauce was simmering, he leaned against the counter and watched me knead dough. “You have a good laugh,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, but I could feel myself blushing.
Dinner was perfect—fresh pasta, a salad with peaches, wine he insisted was “cheap but honest.” We ate at his kitchen island, the city lights winking through the window behind us.
I realized, halfway through the meal, that I hadn’t thought about Richard once all day.
Not once.
After dinner, we cleaned up together. He handed me a towel, and for a minute, our hands touched.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
He gave me a smile, soft and private. “Anytime.”
When he drove me home, he waited until I got inside before leaving.
I stood in my kitchen, staring at the leftovers he’d packed for me, and felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
Maybe this was how you started over.
One meal, one moment, one laugh at a time.