Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Alexis
Noah’s mouth collides with mine, and I gasp, shocked at the electric current that runs through me at the touch. The warmth of his lips sends shivers down my spine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
He doesn’t slow down, his lips moving against mine with a steady rhythm that makes my knees weak.
The faint taste of coffee lingers on his mouth, mixed with something uniquely him.
I press into him, my fingers curling into his shirt, feeling the heat of his body through the soft cotton.
The bulky muscles that I’ve had my eye on are right there, nothing but thin fabric keeping them from my touch.
His chest is solid beneath my palms, rising and falling with his quickened breath.
Heat roars through me, the desire untamed and raw.
Every nerve ending comes alive as his fingers thread through my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
I realize just how much I’ve been trying to deny this attraction—all those stolen glances while he kneaded dough, the way my pulse jumped whenever our hands accidentally brushed.
I wasn’t even sure if he felt it too, if those moments when I caught him looking at me meant what I hoped they meant.
But now, as his hand presses against the small of my back and he pulls me closer, eliminating any space between us, there can be no more doubt. This man wants me, and he’s showing it with every movement, every breath, every gentle yet insistent touch.
Our kiss becomes more frenzied, the need that we’ve been keeping tamped down rising to the surface like dough that’s been left to proof.
His hands frame my face now, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as if I’m something precious.
I loop my arms over his shoulders, feeling the strength there, the way his muscles shift as he moves.
He backs me up, step by careful step, until?—
My back hits something firm, and there’s a dull boom as a bag of flour hits the floor. A white cloud puffs up around our feet. I break away from Noah, my lips already missing his. “Sorry.” I wince, looking down at the mess we’ve created. Flour dust settles on our shoes like snow.
“It’s okay.” He chuckles, not looking one bit perturbed. His hair is slightly mussed from my fingers, and there’s a dusting of flour on his dark apron that somehow makes him look even more appealing.
The absurdity of it—making out in a professional kitchen like teenagers—makes me laugh as well.
The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest. We’re left standing here breathlessly staring at each other, our chests still heaving, me wondering if my cheeks look as flushed as his.
The kitchen feels smaller somehow, more intimate, as if the world has shrunk to just this space, just us.
Did I really just kiss my client? The person whose cookbook could make or break my career?
The weight of what just happened starts to settle in.
What next? My mind races. I have no idea where to go from here. The professional boundaries I’d so carefully maintained have just crumbled like day-old bread.
Noah clears his throat, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “Uh, I’m... I’m sorry.”
“What?” I feel my eyes widen, panic fluttering in my chest, and I can’t get the next words out fast enough. “Don’t be sorry! I liked it.”
His face softens immediately, the worry lines around his eyes smoothing out. Hope takes light in his eyes, transforming his whole expression. “You did?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, barely able to get the word out past the tightness in my throat. “I did.”
We grin at each other like two kids who’ve just discovered something wonderful and secret, neither of us sure what to say or do next.
“I forgot a step,” Noah says suddenly, running a hand through his hair and sending more flour into the air. “With the sourdough.”
I guffaw, the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces. “No. I don’t believe that.” Not Noah, who treats bread-making like a sacred ritual.
“I did.” His gaze drops in a shy gesture I never would have expected from him.
This confident baker who commands his kitchen like a maestro suddenly looks vulnerable.
“We need to let the dough autolyze for an hour before doing a kneading technique called stretching and folding. I was so nervous about having you here that I just... I forgot.”
My heart does a little flip. I bite into my smile, trying to contain the joy spreading through me. “You were nervous about having me here?”
He inhales deeply, his shoulders rising to his ears, the movement making his apron shift. “Yeah.” He lets the breath go in a big whoosh that ruffles the papers on the nearby counter.
“I was nervous coming too.” I shove my hands into my jeans’ pockets, needing something to do with them before I reach for him again. The denim is rough against my flour-dusted fingers.
“I didn’t think...” He rubs his palm across his jaw, the slight rasp of stubble audible in the quiet kitchen. “I mean, we have our past...”
“You thought I hold that against you? Don’t you hold it against me?”
He blinks and stares at me for so long that it becomes apparent he might not answer.
The refrigerators hum in the background, and somewhere a clock ticks steadily.
When he finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful, measured.
“Not anymore. I know I have a chip on my shoulder, and I’ve taken that out on you. I’m working on that.”
“Good to hear.” I’m still not sold that he doesn’t harbor at least some resentment against me, but at least he’s aware of what a butthead he’s been. It’s a start, and right now, with the taste of him still on my lips, I’ll take it.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, still staring at me with those intense brown eyes that seem to see right through me.
I want to step up to him, to kiss him again and lose myself in his delirious touch. The pull is almost magnetic. I can’t forget that he’s my client, though, and I’m here for work.
“What’s this autolyzing you were talking about?”
He starts, seemingly having completely forgotten about the bread. His professional mask slips back on, though not completely. “Oh. Right. It’s when you mix the flour and water and let it sit before adding salt and starter. It helps develop the gluten structure without kneading.”
“We already added the starter.” I bite my bottom lip and try not to laugh at the look of realization dawning on his face.
“Shit.” Noah groans and drops his head back, exposing the strong line of his throat. “Okay, maybe I’ve been more than a little distracted.”
“What do we do now?” I giggle, the sound light and free.
“Either way, we need to let the dough rise.” He steps forward, hands finding my waist with a certainty that makes my breath catch. His fingers are warm through my shirt.
“That’s true.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I have an idea for what we can do in the meantime.”
“Oh, yeah?” He asks, his voice dropping to a husky register that sends heat pooling in my stomach.
“Can I see your cookbook collection?”
“My cookbooks?” He looks surprised, eyebrows raising, but not disappointed that my suggestion wasn’t of the sensual nature. There’s something endearing about his expression.
“I saw them in your office the other day. I peeked while I was waiting for you, but I’d like to know more about them. Especially which ones have inspired you the most.”
“Absolutely.” His whole face lights up. You’d think he’s a kid who has been asked to show off his favorite toy. The enthusiasm is infectious. Slipping his hand in mine—his fingers are rough from years of kneading, warm and sure—he leads me out of the kitchen and down the hallway to his office.
Dropping my hand reluctantly, he goes straight to the bookshelves that dominate one wall. He pulls down a book that I overlooked the last time. Probably because it’s not a cookbook, but a slim book about the history of bread. The spine is cracked, the corners soft with wear.
He hands it to me with the reverence someone might show for a family heirloom, and I open it up to find multiple pages about sourdough dog-eared. The margins are filled with his neat handwriting, notes about hydration ratios and fermentation times. “When did you get this?”
“I read it while I was living with my friend in New York. After Street Cucina closed.” His voice carries a weight of memory.
“My dad and I had this thing when I was growing up where we would go to the second-hand bookstore and get old cookbooks. Saturday mornings, without fail. I started doing that again to cheer myself up, walking through the city to this tiny shop in Brooklyn, and I came across this. It’s what got me interested in sourdough. ”
“It’s so old.” I flip to the beginning of the book and find that it was printed in the early eighties. The pages are yellowed, that particular vanilla scent of aged paper filling my nostrils.
“Practically falling apart,” he says with pride, like the wear is a badge of honor.
His finger runs along the spines on the top shelf, touching each book gently, and he pulls down a bulky cookbook.
This one is newer but equally loved. “My dad gave me this one and a few others when I moved here to open the bakery.”
I run my fingers over the cover, feeling the embossed title, and think about the picture of Noah and his dad—currently right over Noah’s shoulder. In the photo, they’re both covered in flour, grinning at the camera. “He must have been so proud.”
Noah’s smile flickers like a candle in a breeze. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, his shoulder pressing against a diploma from culinary school. “He worries that I can’t handle Rye Again.”
“What?” I scoff, genuine indignation rising in my chest. “You’re doing an amazing job with it.”