Chapter 9 #2
She shakes her head slowly. “So then why don’t you want to go back there? You can admit on paper that the bread is good but you can’t show it?”
“Um.” I bite my lip, switching the cold pack for the hot water bottle. The warmth spreads through my abdomen, providing marginal relief. “Okay, fine. You got me. I’m going there tomorrow anyway. He’s teaching me some recipes.”
Devin appears in the living room doorway, eyes narrowed with curiosity. “I’m confused, too. Why are you learning his recipes?”
“It’s a way for me to get to know him. To learn the story of the man behind the bread.” I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s all for the book.”
“Of course.” Flick nods, but her expression suggests she’s not buying it entirely.
“It’s complicated.”
“Sounds like there’s still a war going on.” Devin opens the pizza box, releasing the aroma of melted cheese and garlic. She serves up three slices with the efficiency of someone who’s done this many times before.
“Maybe.” I rake my fingers through my hair, which I realize is probably a tangled mess. “I think he still doesn’t trust me.”
“Trust has to be earned,” Flick says simply. “No one is owed it.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a grumble. She’s right, of course, but it doesn’t make the situation any less frustrating. This whole project would run so much smoother if Noah could just accept that I’m not out to destroy him this time.
“I looked him up.” Flick’s grin turns mischievous. “He’s really handsome.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “He’s okay.”
“Just okay?” Her eyebrow arches skeptically.
“Fine, he’s...” I release a long sigh. “So hot it hurts. It’s distracting. I’m not even sure how I’ll be able to focus on doing my job around him.”
The room erupts in laughter. I start to join in, but the movement sends a sharp pain through my pelvic floor, cutting my laugh short.
“I just need this cookbook to go well.” I let my head fall back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling. “That’s more important than any personal stuff Noah and I have going on.”
“It will go well.” Devin settles cross-legged on the floor, balancing her plate on her lap. “You’re obviously devoted to it and you’ll give it all the time and attention it needs. And I’m sure the one-on-one baking sessions won’t hurt.” Her smile turns wicked.
“Yeah, maybe they won’t be so bad.”
But even as I try to keep my tone light, my heart rate picks up at the thought.
Tomorrow, if I’m feeling better, I’ll be alone with Noah in his kitchen.
We’ll be working side by side, probably brushing against each other in the small space, his hands guiding mine as he shows me proper technique.
The intimacy of it, even in a professional context, makes my stomach flutter with something that has nothing to do with my current pain.
I force myself to sit up carefully, adjusting my position to ease the persistent ache. The hot water bottle has cooled to lukewarm, but I keep it pressed against my abdomen anyway. “How about a movie?”
Devin grabs the remote from the coffee table. “Mystic Pizza seems fitting.”
“Perfect.” It’s comfort food in movie form, something I’ve seen enough times that I won’t have to concentrate too hard.
We settle into comfortable positions—me stretched out on the couch with Cat purring on my chest, Devin on the floor with her back against the couch, Flick curled in the armchair. I manage a few bites of the THC brownie before attempting the pizza, hoping it might take the edge off the pain.
Twenty minutes into the movie, just as Julia Roberts is delivering her first big scene, a thought strikes me with sudden urgency. I gasp, shifting on the couch.
“What?” Flick’s eyes are wide with alarm. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I set my barely touched plate on the coffee table. “I just remembered I need to feed my starter.”
“Feed your what-er?”
“My sourdough starter that Noah gave me. I guess it’s my homework? It’s supposed to be fed twice a day.”
“I’ll do it.” Flick pushes herself up from the armchair. “Where is it?”
“On the kitchen counter. It needs water and flour... and a name.”
“A name?” Her laugh echoes from the kitchen.
“Noah says that when you name them they grow faster.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t kidding?” I hear the sound of a lid unscrewing. A moment later she appears in the doorway, holding up the mason jar containing the bubbling beige mixture.
“I have no clue.”
“How about Stan?” Devin suggests without looking away from the TV. “Starter Stan?”
“That’ll work.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?” Flick calls back, already returning to the kitchen. I give her detailed instructions about the ratio of water to flour, which she follows while providing running commentary about the starter’s appearance and smell.
“You know what it really needs?” Devin suddenly sits up straighter, digging through her bag. She produces a skein of red yarn and knitting needles. “A sweater.”
“Perfect.” The absurdity of it makes me laugh despite everything.
Flick returns with the freshly fed starter, and Devin immediately starts taking measurements of the jar, wrapping her measuring tape around its circumference with scientific precision.
“Are you singing to it, too?” Flick’s tone is teasing.
I roll my eyes. “Totally. Every hour on the dot.”
“I think this color matches it well.” Devin holds a strand of the red yarn against the glass, considering it with an artist’s eye.
“I’m sure Noah will love it.”
The moment his name leaves my lips, my heart does an unexpected flip.
I grab the remote and hit play, desperate to focus on anything else.
But even as the movie continues, I can’t shake the swirl of emotions in my chest. Noah is a client.
A professional contact. Someone with whom I share a complicated history that should serve as a warning against getting too involved.
My career depends on this cookbook’s success.
If things go well, if the publishing house is impressed with my work, it could lead to the full-time position I desperately need.
A steady job with benefits, regular hours, the ability to work from home when my health demands it.
It’s everything I’ve been working toward.
Getting romantically involved with Noah would complicate everything. Even if the cookbook project continued smoothly, what happens when the work is done? What if things between us go badly? Any personal drama could poison my professional reputation before it’s even fully established.
And if that happens, I can kiss my dream of a full-time editing job goodbye.
One bad reference, one whispered warning in the publishing world’s tight-knit community, and I’ll be back to scrambling for freelance work, sitting through endless restaurant meals that leave me in agony, pushing my body past its limits just to pay rent.
No way in hell will I let that happen. Not for any guy. Not even for the cutest baker this side of the Mississippi.