Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Noah
I fold my hands on the polished wooden table and meet Alexis’s gaze head-on. The late morning light filters through Rye Again’s front windows, casting geometric shadows across the floor between us. “What would you like to know about me?”
Her chin lifts just a fraction—barely noticeable, but I catch it. The movement leaves me uncertain whether she’s lowering her defenses or reinforcing them. That uncertainty grates at me. In any confrontation, knowing where your opponent stands gives you the advantage. With Alexis, I’m flying blind.
“How did you get into this work?” Her voice carries a professional tone, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath. “Have you always wanted to bake?”
“I always wanted to cook.” The correction comes automatically.
“It was kind of mine and my dad’s thing.
When he got home from work, we would go through the cookbooks he was always picking up and find what looked the most delicious.
On the weekends we’d take our time getting it all together.
Walk to the grocery store, maybe the farmer’s market to get ingredients. ”
Her eyes brighten, transforming her whole face. “That sounds awesome.”
“Yeah.” The smile breaks free before I can stop it. “It was. My dad, he’s this tough, quiet dude. Built like a brick wall, hands rough from years of manual labor. It’s almost impossible to know what he’s thinking or feeling. When we cook, though, he opens up.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a construction worker in Baltimore.” I notice she hasn’t pulled out a notepad or her phone. We’re having what feels like an actual conversation—except the flow runs in only one direction. “What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“Outside of Chicago.” She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not an interesting story. My mom is a nurse—so is my sister. My dad is a mechanic. They were awesome parents.”
The shrug that follows seems designed to close the topic. There has to be more beneath that dismissive gesture. There always is.
But what do I care? Despite agreeing to play her “get to know each other” game, I still intend stay on guard. At any moment she could decide to change tactics and rip the rug out from under me.
“What about your mom?” She shifts in her chair. “Does she like to cook?”
The question lands like a physical blow to my chest. “I don’t know. I never knew her. Well, I did—but not that I can remember. She died when I was about one.”
Her eyes go wide, her whole body freezing in place. It’s the look I’ve seen countless times before—that terrible mixture of pity and discomfort that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry.” The words emerge so quietly they’re almost lost in the ambient noise of the bakery.
I lift one shoulder, unable to bear the sympathy in her eyes. “Not everyone has the picture-perfect childhood growing up.”
A weighted silence stretches between us. She studies my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. Does she think I’m attacking her, throwing her supposedly perfect upbringing in her face?
Shit. Was I?
Possibly. Maybe a little. But it’s only because I still don’t believe our working together won’t bite me in the ass in some way.
That she won’t find a way to screw me over in the end.
With everything that’s happened so far, between here and back in New York, it’s still hard to let my defenses down around this woman.
I need to make sure I stay one step ahead.
“I never knew my birth parents.” Her voice comes out flat, emotionless. “They gave me up at birth. My mom and dad adopted me a few weeks later.”
The words hit me like a sucker punch, my stomach plummeting.
“I—I’m sorry.” The words stumble out while I mentally kick myself. Here I am, making assumptions about her perfect life being all sunshine and rainbows, when she’s carrying her own losses.
She lifts her shoulders in an echo of my earlier gesture. “Guess we have that in common. We never knew our birth moms.”
“And food.” I find myself leaning forward. “We love food.”
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Yes. And we love food.”
Suddenly I’m aware of how close we’ve gotten. Her face hovers mere inches from mine, and the tropical scent of her shampoo—coconut and something floral—fills my senses. Her gaze travels across my face, and my pulse kicks up several notches.
I force myself to retreat, pulling back to my side of the table. “I went to culinary school. Got a certificate in Culinary Arts.”
“And then moved to New York?” She wraps her fingers around her coffee cup, those dark lashes fluttering as she takes a sip.
“No, not right after school. I worked on a cruise ship for two years.”
“You must have seen some interesting places.”
A laugh escapes me. “Interesting places that included the Baltimore Inner Harbor. The ship was a weekend dinner cruise that never left the area.”
Her grin transforms her face. “Oh. Gotcha. So after that you went to New York?”
“Nope. Still not yet. I got a job at a pizza restaurant through a friend from community college. And there I found dough.”
“Ah, so you two go pretty far back.”
“It’s been a long time coming.” My gaze drops to my coffee, long since gone tepid.
“I was there for seven years, working up from kitchen assistant to head baker. Learning every secret that dough had to offer. Then one night a restauranteur came in, tasted the dough, and asked me if I wanted to open a spot in NYC specializing in Italian street food. Flatbread, ciabatta sandwiches, focaccia with toppings. Bombo?—”
The word catches in my throat. Bombolini. The same pastry Alexis tried at Street Cucina. The one she called “revolting” in her review.
I clear my throat, pushing past the moment.
“I said yes. It seemed like a dream come true.” A bitter laugh escapes.
“I didn’t know what I was signing up for, though.
I thought I knew all about the stress of full-time cooking, but New York was a whole new story entirely.
There were days when I slept two hours—and only because I crashed in the pantry, using a bag of flour as a pillow. ”
Alexis catches her bottom lip between her teeth and I notice her tensing. Preparing. I can tell she knows her entrance to the story is about to happen.
“The reviews were amazing at the beginning,” I continue, my voice hardening. “And that was great, but it wasn’t enough. You know what New York’s food world is like. I had to constantly one-up myself. Every new thing needed to be bigger, better, flashier. It was the only way to stay relevant.”
Her eyes drift closed for a moment. “And then... everything else happened.”
“Yep.” The word comes out clipped. “The kitchen assistant messed up the new recipe, and I went out and bought the store shit. Then you came in... Then the health inspection... It all fell apart pretty fast after that.”
I spread my hands wide, encompassing the bakery around us. “Fast forward three years and here I am.”
“Why?” Her brows draw together. “After all the trouble you had with Street Cucina, why would you do it again?”
“How could I not?”
The air between us grows thick with mutual understanding. When you have something you’re passionate about, something you know in your bones is good, how can you not share it with the world?
Her throat moves as she swallows. “I’m glad you opened Rye Again. It’s really good.”
“Is that your official review?” The teasing comes naturally, surprising me. “It’s really good?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement there. “My editor would have a stroke if I turned that in.”
I lace my fingers together on the table. “I don’t know if you read this... but not long after your review of Street Cucina came out, a rival paper asked me to write an op-ed about food reviewers...”
Her breath catches audibly. “Yeah. I read it. It was... fair.”
I stare at her, certain she must be joking. That op-ed was pure vitriol, all my rage over Street Cucina’s death channeled into those pages. I tore food reviewers apart, claiming that they operate as a big brother of sorts, gate keepers who are often failed or wannabe chefs themselves.
“I wanted to hurt you the way you had hurt me.” The words come out flat, honest. “You and the rest of your kind.”
Something flickers across her face—hurt, maybe—before she composes herself. “Noah...”
My hand curls into a fist on the table.
If she’s about to apologize, I don’t want to hear it. Mostly because an apology would make it hard to dislike her, and I need to dislike her. If I don’t then the growing attraction will become even harder to ignore.
“Hey, Noah.” Lawrence’s timing is perfect, his head poking out from the kitchen. “Something is up with one of the ovens. Can you come take a look at it?”
I swallow a sigh. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Alexis.
The kitchen doors swing closed behind me with a soft whoosh. “Which oven?”
“None of them.” Lawrence continues polishing glassware. “You looked like you could use a breather.”
“What? No. I was fine.”
“Eh. It didn’t look that way.” He sets one gleaming glass on the shelf and picks up another.
The sigh escapes this time. He’s right, of course. Talking to Alexis has me wound tighter than piano wire. I was pretty close to taking some low blows if he hadn’t stopped me.
If I haven’t already. Fuck.
She’s acting like a professional, wanting to make this book thing work between us regardless of our past. I need to stop licking my wounds and do the same.
“Thank you, man.” I clap him on the back. “Guess I did need a breath.”
“Anytime.”
Lawrence has been a godsend. More than just the best manager I could ask for, he’s become a real friend.
“What’s got you twisted up?” He sets down his polishing cloth.
I rub the back of my neck. “All of it. I need to stop whining, though, and just focus on the book. Forget about that ridiculous review.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t malicious.”