We Can Do (Silent Journey #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Alexis Hullinger

“Come on.” I punch the check button on the parking machine for the fifth time, watching the screen flicker with the same error message. “Please work.”

The machine finally beeps, and the screen changes to show my payment has been processed.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Eight fifteen in the morning, and my day already feels like it’s spiraling.

Between the cookbook editing meeting and the bakery review, I have enough on my plate without fighting with Portsmouth’s ancient parking equipment.

I hoist my tote bag higher on my shoulder and hurry out of the garage.

The morning air carries the salty tang from the harbor mixed with something sweeter—probably from one of the nearby eateries.

My interview with the town’s newest baker starts in fifteen minutes.

No, thirteen now. That’s also the amount of time I have left to learn about the author whose cookbook I’ll be editing.

I still can’t believe it. Editing . For one of the biggest publishing houses in the country.

As a standalone job, it’s good— but the real prize is the possibility of a full-time position with the company. When the editor-in-chief at Kitchen Lore Publishing contacted me about the freelance gig, she let me know that I’m at the top of their list for hiring this summer.

Provided I do a good enough job on this cookbook. No pressure there!

Luckily, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s multitasking.

Which is why I had scheduled the meeting with the cookbook author at the bakery where I’m writing a review.

I’ll get the info I need for my Portsmouth Daily News article, then—since the cookbook is about sourdough—I’ll meet with the cookbook author in the same spot at ten.

The sidewalk is already crowded with the morning rush—business people with their coffees, joggers weaving through pedestrians, a few early tourists snapping photos of the historic brick buildings. I dodge around a woman with a stroller and pull out my phone.

I need to at least glance at the document my editor sent last night that briefs me on the new baker. I know nothing about him, which means I won’t even know how to start the interview and will end up looking both unprofessional and ridiculous unless I do a little research first.

As I round the next corner, I enter my unlock code and open my email app when I slam into a hard shoulder.

“Oh!” My phone launches from my hand, and I hear the crack before I see it hit the pavement. The sound makes my stomach drop.

“You okay lady?”

I look up at the man I’ve run into—tall, brown hair, something familiar about his face though I can’t place it. Portsmouth isn’t that big; I’ve probably seen him at the coffee shop or farmer’s market.

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Heat floods my face. I should have been watching where I was going. “I wasn’t paying attention?—”

“Here you go.” He scoops up my phone and practically shoves it at me, his tone clipped. “Be careful. You don’t want to walk into traffic.”

Before I can thank him or apologize again, he’s already walking away, disappearing into the stream of pedestrians. I stare after him for a moment, then look down at my phone. A spider web of cracks runs across the screen, and when I try to tap, half of it doesn’t respond.

“Great.” I tap harder, trying different angles, but the document about the cookbook author won’t open. The screen is too damaged. I don’t even know their name, what they look like, what kind of experience they have with sourdough. I’ll have to wing the entire meeting.

My stomach clenches. Winging it has never been my strong suit.

I like preparation, research, knowing exactly what I’m walking into.

But there’s no time to find a computer or call the publisher.

I’ll have to rely on my interviewing skills and hope the author doesn’t realize I’m completely unprepared.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the anxiety creeping up my spine.

The familiar intersection comes into view—Market Street crossing with Harbor Avenue, the old maritime museum on one corner.

Rye Again should be just around the next turn.

I’ve been meaning to check out the new bakery since it opened last week, and now I’m getting paid to do it.

At least that part of my morning should go smoothly.

I round the final corner and stop dead in my tracks.

The line stretches out the bakery’s door, down the sidewalk, and around the side of the building. People are chatting, checking their phones, shifting their weight as the queue inches forward at a glacial pace.

My chest tightens. There’s no way I’ll get inside, order, try the sourdough, and take proper notes for my review before my ten o’clock meeting with the cookbook author.

Shit. I bite my bottom lip. Could this day possibly get any worse?

“Alexis!” a familiar voice calls.

I glance over to see Elaine waving from near the front of the line. My boss—well, part-time boss—stands with her arms crossed, looking impatient even from twenty feet away. Relief washes over me.

I weave through the crowd toward her, ignoring the glares from people who probably think I’m cutting in line.

“Came to check in on me?” I keep my tone light, though part of me knows that’s exactly what she’s doing.

Elaine is the food editor at the Portsmouth Daily News and she’s the one who sends me out on all the projects I write for them.

She also has a reputation for micromanaging and though it irritates me sometimes, I can’t help but admire her dedication.

You can always count on things getting done properly when she’s in charge.

As nice as it is working for her part-time, though, I’m tired of running around on freelance assignments. I’m not even technically an employee at the paper; I’m a contractor they bring on per job.

After years of freelancing, I’m craving what some would call a regular, “boring” job. The kind that hopefully comes with some benefits.

“What a line, hm?” She doesn’t acknowledge my question. “Don’t worry. I talked to the manager, and I’ve already got you a table. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Thank you so much.” The words tumble out, genuine gratitude mixed with embarrassment that I hadn’t thought to arrive earlier, hadn’t anticipated the crowds at the hot new bakery.

Elaine leads me past the line, and I feel the weight of annoyed stares following us.

The door opens to a wave of warmth and the most incredible smells escape—yeast, butter, herbs, and fruity coffee beans.

The space is smaller than I expected, maybe fifteen tables crammed into what used to be a vintage clothing store.

Exposed brick walls, industrial pendant lights, a long front counter displaying golden-brown loaves behind glass, a variety of bread stands on one section of counter space, and a massive coffee setup on another.

She guides me to a corner table, partially hidden behind a large fiddle-leaf fig. Perfect for observing without being observed. A man in an apron appears almost immediately with a thick slice of signature sourdough and a steaming French press.

“Thank you.” I’m genuinely surprised by the service. Usually, I’m fighting for counter space, trying to balance plates while scribbling notes.

“Are you staying?” I ask Elaine, though I already know the answer.

“No. I just came to make sure you got in.”

The words sting a little. Like I’m a child who needs supervision. I haven’t made any big slip ups in the two years I’ve been working part-time for the paper, but that’s Elaine—she treats all her writers this way, I remind myself. It’s not personal.

“Send it to me as soon as it’s done.” She’s already moving toward the door, navigating tables with practiced efficiency.

My stomach growls as soon as she’s gone, and the beginning of a caffeine headache pulses behind my eyes.

But before I eat, I pull out my notepad and pen.

The ritual grounds me. Food reviewing isn’t just about taste—it’s the whole experience.

The ambience, the scents, the moment before you take the first bite and you’re holding your breath, caught between expectation and curiosity.

I jot down my observations: Packed at 8:30 am on a Tuesday.

Mixed crowd of customers—young professionals grabbing coffee before work, retirees meeting with friends, even a few students on their way to school.

Simple menu on chalkboard. Sourdough varieties: classic, rye, whole wheat, daily special (rosemary today).

I press the plunger on the French press slowly, watching the grounds settle. Pour just a few ounces into the white ceramic cup—enough to taste, not enough to rush. The coffee is bright, almost citrusy. Ethiopian, maybe. Single origin for sure.

Next is the bread. On visual inspection, the crust is deeply caramelized, with those irregular holes that mark true artisan sourdough.

I cut it in half, noting how the knife crunches through the exterior to reveal an open, airy crumb structure inside.

The butter beside it is different—flecked with black pepper and something floral.

I taste it alone first. Honeysuckle. Unexpected and brilliant.

I spread the butter carefully, making sure to get an even layer, then lift the bread to my mouth. The first bite stops me cold.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

The crust shatters between my teeth, giving way to a chewy interior that’s tangy and complex. The butter melts instantly, the pepper providing little sparks of heat while the honeysuckle adds an almost ethereal sweetness. This isn’t just good bread. This is transcendent.

I want to know everything. Who is this baker? Where did they train? How did they develop this recipe? My mind races with questions for the interview, and I’m suddenly grateful I’ll have time to talk to the owner of Rye Again before my cookbook meeting.

If only I’d had time to prepare properly.

Last night feels like a blur now—the newspaper meeting that ran until seven, the team dinner that stretched on into the night where everyone wanted to stay for drinks.

I’d felt the familiar ache starting on the drive home to Pine Island, that deep, burning sensation that signals an interstitial cystitis flare.

By the time I’d gotten home, I could barely walk.

Hours of alternating ice packs and heating pads on my lower abdomen, the CBD cream that sometimes helps but never enough, lying in bed trying to find a position that didn’t make me want to cry.

The pain had consumed everything, made it impossible to do anything but survive until it passed.

Unfortunately, thanks to all that fun, I didn’t have any time to prepare for today. This morning the worst of it has faded to a dull ache, manageable but still there. I push the thought away. I have work to do.

“Can I get you anything else?”

I look up to find the manager—buzzed blond hair, friendly smile, the one Elaine talked about.

“I’ll want to try some of the other sourdoughs.” I dab at my mouth with the napkin, hoping I don’t have crumbs on my face. “Right now I really want to talk to the owner, though.”

“You’re in luck. Here he comes.” He nods toward the kitchen.

I turn in my chair, already composing my opening questions, and my smile freezes halfway to my lips.

No. No, no, no.

The man walking toward my table is tall, muscular, with dark hair that’s slightly too long and eyes the color of dark chocolate. I know that face. I know that walk. I know exactly who the man is walking towards me right now.

“Damn,” I whisper.

I watch the exact moment recognition hits him.

He’s a few feet from my table when his eyes lock onto mine and his entire body goes rigid.

The friendly expression drains from his face like water from a broken glass.

We stare at each other across the small space, and I want to look away but I can’t.

It’s like being caught in headlights—paralyzed, waiting for impact.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” His nostrils flare, hands clenching at his sides.

“Noah.” I start to stand, though I have no idea what I’m going to say. My mind is completely blank.

“Save it.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen with enough force that they keep moving long after he’s gone.

The manager’s eyebrows have climbed nearly to his hairline. “Whoa. Did you two date or something?”

“Worse.” I take a shaky breath, already grabbing my bag. “I left him a bad review.”

I stand and head for the swinging doors, my heart hammering against my ribs. This can’t be happening. Of all the bakeries in all of New Hampshire, Noah Reynolds owns this one? And the cookbook author is meeting me here. Great.

I push through the swinging doors, following Noah into the kitchen.