Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Noah
“We just got started.” Alexis’s voice carries that same stubborn edge I remember from three years ago, when she sat across from me at Street Cucina, picking apart every answer I gave her.
“And now we’re done.” The words come out sharper than I intend as I rake my fingers through my hair.
My hands won’t stop shaking—exhaustion from the four AM start, frustration from that customer, and something else I refuse to name all mixing into this trembling mess.
One disaster after another this morning, and having Alexis here witnessing it all makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
“You know why that customer insists there are preservatives in my bread?” Then went so far to also asked all those rapid-fire questions like he was conducting his own inspection.
How many employees work here? What are their schedules?
Which suppliers do you use for your flour?
As if he knew more about running a bakery than someone who’s been kneading dough since he could reach the counter.
Alexis’s mouth snaps shut. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.
But I need to say it anyway. Need her to understand what her words have done. “Your review. You said that I use preservatives.”
“I tasted preservatives.” Her hands spread wide, palms up, like she’s presenting evidence in court. “What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose until it throbs, turning away from those eyes that see too much. No. Of course she wasn’t supposed to lie. That’s not how reviews work. But assumptions—those are different. Those destroy careers.
“I know now that you didn’t use them.” Her voice softens, loses that defensive edge. “And I’m sorry.”
The apology hits me sideways, unexpected. My chest tightens because the truth is burning its way up my throat, and she wasn’t completely wrong. God, I hate that she wasn’t wrong.
“It was one night.” The words taste like failure.
“One of the kitchen assistants messed up a recipe I’d just taught the team a week before.
He didn’t account for the saltiness of the olives in the olive-studded bombolini dough.
It was completely unusable. By the time I realized it, dinner service was starting. So I?—”
The memory makes my stomach churn. The panic, the desperation, the stupid, career-ending decision.
“I ran out to the deli and got some pre-made pizza dough. And then...”
Shit. I can’t look at her. Can’t see whatever expression is crossing her face. Yes, she played a role in ruining my career in New York, but I handed her the ammunition.
“And then I had that bombolini.” Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact.
“Yep.” I wave my hand dismissively, as if I can brush away three years of consequences.
Here it comes—the scathing follow-up, the I-told-you-so.
“After that came the bad health inspection. The temperature at the hand washing sink wasn’t warm enough —had no clue about that.
Someone left an open bag of flour on the floor.
The forks had been put into the carafes point up. ..”
“So they shut you down?” Something flickers across her face—sympathy maybe—but I don’t want it. Not from her.
“No. Just gave me a bad score. People heard about it, though. Combined with your review, it looked... bad. My investor pulled out, and that was that. There was no keeping it going.”
Her lashes—thick and black with that perfect swoop at the corners—flutter as she processes this. “I’m sorry, Noah.”
My name on her lips sends an unexpected jolt through my chest, pulse jumping like I’ve touched a live wire. I force myself to ignore it, to focus on the anger that’s safer, cleaner.
“So of course now people assume I’m using preservatives on the regular.
” The words pour out faster now, a dam breaking.
“That’s probably why half the customers are here—to try and catch me in the act.
And on top of that, my agent just called me after coming back from vacation.
Apparently, I have a new editor for my cookbook, who I know nothing about.
I don’t even know if they’re any good, and I have to meet them in ten minutes and act like I have the energy for this right now. ”
Her eyes go wide, ocean-blue darkening with surprise. “You’re writing a cookbook? About bread?”
“I will say—thank you for apologizing. My anger... some of it is misdirected. The dough had preservatives when you came. Of course it did. I should have just taken the bombolini off the menu that night, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”
The words keep tumbling out, and I can’t stop them.
“Even closing the restaurant down, it doesn’t end it though.
Every video I post has at least one comment with some jackass saying ‘but where’s the prop, bro?
’ Like they assume I’m putting propionic acid into everything I make!
And on Reddit there are whole forums about how I’m a bread traitor and Rye Again won’t save my image. And...”
The exhale tears out of me, heavy and defeated. I’m venting. To her. To Alexis Hullinger, the woman who wrote the review that started this whole downward spiral. My cheeks burn with the realization.
This isn’t a good look. Just another reason to get her out of here now, before I embarrass myself further.
“How about some bread?” I lead the way out of my office, down the short hallway. “We have one still in development. You can be the first to try it.”
“Noah—”
“If we need to reschedule the interview, we can.” Though I really hope she doesn’t take me up on that. She’s tasted the food, gotten more backstory than I ever meant to give. She can go now. She needs to go now.
The kitchen air hits cooler than my office, carrying the yeast-sweet smell of rising dough and the darker notes of coffee from the front.
I grab several fresh loaves, still warm from the oven, shoving them into a paper bag with our logo stamped on the side.
The test batch of pimento cheese and jalapeno sourdough sits on the cooling rack, golden crust crackling faintly.
I break off a corner, let the heat and spice bloom across my tongue. Perfect.
“Anthony.” My voice carries across the kitchen to one of the assistant bakers. “Do we have any of the paprika-infused black garlic butter?”
“Noah.” Alexis’s voice calls from behind me, insistent.
I spin to face her, needing to cut this off before—before what? Before I say something else I’ll regret? Before she sees more of this mess I’ve become?
“Whatever you’re gonna say, it’s fine. What happened between us—it’s in the past. Thank you for coming.”
The lie tastes worse than day-old bread.
This woman played a major role in my downfall, and I don’t care that her hair catches the light like spun gold or that her lips are painted the exact shade of ripe strawberries.
I’ll be better off never seeing her again.
Right now, I just really need her to leave.
“Here.” The bag crinkles as I push it into her arms, then turn to slice the pimento cheese and jalapeno bread.
The knife moves in practiced strokes, and Anthony appears with the butter just as I need it.
I slather it on thick, the deep garlic scent mixing with the bright hit of paprika, and hold it out to Alexis.
She takes it. Holds it. Doesn’t taste it.
In the food world, that’s basically a slap in the face.
“Don’t worry.” Bitterness creeps into my voice despite my best efforts. “There’s no propionic acid in it.”
Her lips purse, that little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
But before she can continue, Lawrence’s blond head appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey boss, sorry to bother you, but why did the big order for the coffee shop get canceled? I noticed that the order was marked as ‘canceled’ in our system but I just got off the phone with the owner asking when it would be delivered.”
My confusion must show on my face because Lawrence actually cringes. “What are you talking about? I didn’t authorize that. It wasn’t delivered today?”
“No, it was marked as canceled so it wasn’t made or delivered. It was your username that canceled the order so I assumed you knew.”
“Show me.” The words come out steady, but inside, panic and anger are wrestling for dominance. We can’t lose the coffee shop’s business. They’re one of our biggest consistent orders—the kind that keeps the lights on and lets me make payroll without sweating.
Lawrence pulls up the tablet, and there it is in damning red letters: CANCELED. The timestamp shows yesterday evening. The username shows mine.
“I didn’t cancel that order.” My voice is firm, certain.
“Do you think the system glitched or something?” Lawrence’s forehead creases with concern.
“No.” The word comes out hard, final. “I think someone did it intentionally to sabotage me.”
Deep breath. I can fix this. I’ll call the owner, apologize profusely, offer a discount that’ll hurt but not kill us. Work through the night to get their order ready. It’s worth it. Rye Again has to succeed.
A groan escapes before I can stop it. Could this day get any worse?
The soft clearing of a throat pulls my attention back. Alexis. I’d actually forgotten she was here, witnessing this disaster. More material for a bad review. Perfect.
She shifts the bread bag into the crook of her arm, movements sudden and jerky as she fumbles for her phone. “Um, Noah? I’m so sorry to interrupt but I have something to show you.”
The screen she turns toward me is a spiderweb of cracks, making me squint to read the text. But once the words come into focus, they might as well be printed in neon.
Noah Reynolds’ new bread book.
My stomach drops straight through the floor. “Where did you get that?”
There’s only one explanation. Only one possibility. I just don’t want to believe it.
Her sigh carries the weight of revelation. “I’m your new editor, Noah. I didn’t know until you mentioned your book, and then I looked at the brief the publisher sent me.”
“You’re my... new...” The words stick in my throat like poorly mixed dough, but my mouth needs something to do. Something to stop the spinning, the reeling, the complete implosion of everything.
My hand moves without thought, grabbing the bread slice from Alexis’s hand.
The whole thing goes into my mouth at once—jalapeno heat, garlic depth, the perfect crumb structure I’d normally savor all hitting at once in a desperate attempt to buy time, to process, to do anything but stand here gaping at the woman who ruined me once and apparently gets a second shot.
I shouldn’t have asked if this day could get any worse.
Because it just did.