Chapter 8 #2
“No,” I admit. “It wasn’t. It was honest too... I just hate food reviewers all around. They don’t care that no one is perfect. They’re just looking for restaurants to tear down.”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Are you sure that’s Alexis? From the sound of it, she was just doing her job. She tasted the bombolini and wrote an honest review.”
“Yeah... But the whole culture of food review is messed up. She could have talked to me about the dough. Gotten my side of the story.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “And you would have willingly admitted to using store-bought dough? To a food reviewer?”
I cringe. Shit. He’s got me there.
Lawrence’s laughter continues. “What are you really holding against her, Noah? Does it have anything to do with how attractive she is?”
“How would that make me mad?” The words come out louder than intended.
“Because you’re set on hating food reviewers. And becoming friendly with Alexis would threaten all your beliefs about them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grumble. “But, fine. Yes. She’s attractive. If I’m going to get this book done, though, I need to treat her like she has the seductiveness of day-old rye.”
“Hey, don’t knock day-old rye. It makes the best toast.”
“Very funny,” I toss over my shoulder as I head back to the dining room.
I need Lawrence to be right like I need a hole in my head, but with every step I take towards Alexis it becomes harder to not appreciate her beauty. If we’re going to work on this book together, I need to become a pro at compartmentalizing ASAP.
“Hey.” Alexis clears her throat as I slide back into my seat. “I was thinking, it’s pretty clear that we’ve both been acting on assumptions about each other, and I’m sorry.”
The relief her words bring catches me off guard. “I am too. I had a chip on my shoulder when it came to food reviewers long before you ever reviewed Street Cucina. Even if you had written a good review, I wouldn’t have been crazy about you.”
“Thank you.” Her fingers fidget with her gold bracelet. “I don’t want to operate from that place anymore, so I have an idea. What if we work together to test the first few recipes in your book?”
My head tilts in confusion. “They don’t need to be tested. They’re fool proof. I’ve been making them for years.”
“I’m not thinking for you, I’m thinking for me. You teaching me these recipes will allow me to see your process, and that’ll help the book. To champion you like an editor should, I need to understand your approach and the story you’re telling with your food.”
“You’d give up your time to do that?”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be giving up any time. Not when it’s spent doing something worthwhile.”
The suggestion touches something deep in my chest. This is evidence of real commitment to her job.
“Okay. Deal.” I extend my hand across the table. The moment her palm slides against mine, electricity races up my arm from where our skin connects.
I pull my hand back quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice my reaction.
“Great.” Her smile could light up the whole bakery. “We have a deal.”
“Can you come back here on Monday? The morning rush usually ends around nine thirty.”
“Perfect.” She begins gathering her things, but her offer sparks an idea.
“Hold on one second.” I raise a finger and push back from the table.
In the kitchen, I grab a clean mason jar and carefully spoon in a generous portion of my sourdough starter. The pale, bubbling mixture looks healthy and active. I seal the lid tight and carry it back to Alexis.
Her eyes go wide. “Starter?”
“Yep. Feed it with an equal ratio of flour to water.” I place the jar in her hands. “And don’t forget to name it.”
Laughter bubbles out of her. “Name it?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I swear that naming starters makes better bread.”
“So this is my first lesson?” She holds the jar up to the light, examining the starter.
“It’s your second one. The first lesson is what I learned when I first began making sourdough. Take care of yourself. It’s more important than anything else.”
Her gaze shifts from the jar to my face. “How does a starter teach you that?”
“You have to pause twice a day to feed it, and that can be surprisingly soothing.” My hands find my jean pockets. “At least it was for me when I got started doing this.”
Her smile unfolds slowly, a combination of sweetness and something else that makes my breath catch. “Thanks, Noah. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“See you then.” The words barely make it out intact.
She collects Devin from her table, and I watch them head toward the front door. The bell chimes as they exit, and the moment Alexis disappears from view, an unexpected emptiness settles over me.
I shake my head and pivot toward the kitchen. Whatever hold my new editor has over me, there’s one guaranteed way to break it: getting elbow deep in a batch of olive and herb dough.
The kitchen embraces me with its familiar warmth. I head straight for my olive and herb starter, already anticipating the meditative rhythm of kneading.
But something’s wrong.
The starter hasn’t risen properly. The surface should be dotted with bubbles, doubled in size from this morning’s feeding. Instead, it sits flat and lifeless in its container. The smell hits me next—wrong, all wrong.
I look around the empty kitchen. My eyes land on a bag of self-rising flour sitting on the counter near the starter.
Understanding dawns like ice water in my veins. Someone used self-rising flour instead of all-purpose. The chemical leaveners would kill the wild yeast, destroying the starter completely.
I grab the ruined starter and dump it in the trash with more force than necessary. Every single person who works here knows the difference between the flours. The bags are clearly labeled with bold black letters.
My gaze travels to the back door that opens into the alley. Closed, but the deadbolt isn’t engaged. We always keep that door locked unless someone’s taking out trash or receiving a delivery. Always.
The pieces click together with sickening clarity. The wrong flour. The unlocked door.
This was definitely intentional. Someone is sabotaging me.