Chapter 11 #2
“Yeah, he’s just concerned that I have too much going on, with my YouTube channel and now the cookbook.
..” He shrugs, like that’s enough to make the matter go away, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“He was really proud when I opened Street Cucina, though. Literally told me it was the proudest day of his life, and that’s from a man who usually won’t even admit he has feelings. ”
Guilt stabs me right in the heart, sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t my fault that Street Cucina closed—I was just doing my job—but the more I get to know Noah, the more I feel awful that his pride and joy ended up crashing and burning.
“Have you tested out all these recipes?” I ask, eager to move the conversation along, to chase away the shadows gathering in his eyes.
“Every single one.” He sweeps his arm, gesturing at the bookshelves with obvious pride. There must be hundreds of books here.
I laugh, the sound warming the space between us. “I meant this one book.”
Noah grins, and it transforms his face completely. “Oh. Well, yes. The book too.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s clearly the kind of person who throws himself all in when he loves something. The evidence is all around us—in every carefully annotated page, every flour-dusted surface in his kitchen.
“Which recipe is your favorite?”
“Oh.” His eyes light up with an inner fire. “My classic sourdough recipe, of course.”
“Of course.” I hand him the book back so he can re-shelve it; I have the suspicion that the books are ordered in a specific way that only he can understand.
He slides it into place with practiced ease.
“I’m sure your dad is really proud of you opening Rye Again.
Sometimes parents are too busy worrying about us to remember to tell us things like how proud they are. ”
“Your parents must be proud of you. A fancy food reviewer. A million people only dream of having that job.”
“It’s okay.” I sweep my ponytail off my shoulder, feeling the weight of my hair shift. “I’d rather be editing full time. That way...”
I pause, catching myself right before I launch into an explanation of my Painful Bladder Syndrome. It’s not that I’m ashamed to have it, but mentioning it usually requires a long, follow-up conversation. One that’s not sexy at all. One that changes how people look at me.
I’m not ready to go there yet. Right now, I’m hanging out in this office with a hot guy I really like, surrounded by his passion made tangible in cookbook form. The last thing I want to talk about is my chronic illness.
“It’ll be something new,” I finish, the words feeling hollow but necessary. “I’m ready for a change.”
“I get that.” He reaches out for me, his movement slow and deliberate. “This is new.”
“Yeah.” I grin, relishing the heat of his body as he draws closer. “It is.”
We’re about to get even closer, the space between us charging with electricity, when a timer goes off in the kitchen. The shrill beeping cuts through the moment like a knife.
“The dough is ready,” Noah whispers, though he doesn’t move away immediately.
“Let’s hope it rose.” I spin around and head for the door, needing to put some distance between us before I do something reckless.
“You doubt me?”
“You said you were distracted.” I shoot a teasing grin over my shoulder, catching his expression. “How do we know that wasn’t baking soda we put in instead of flour?”
“Good point.” There’s a smile in his voice, warm and rich like honey, and I can feel his gaze on me as I walk down the hallway. It’s like a physical touch, raising goosebumps on my arms.
A delicious tingle runs through my body. I’m supposed to be focused on baking today, but all I can think about is Noah’s touch—how electric it was, how I want it again, how next time he touches me I might beg him not to stop. The thought makes me shiver.
“How does it look?” Noah asks, so close behind me his breath tickles my neck. The warmth of him radiates against my back.
I pull the cloth off the bowl with a flourish. The dough has doubled in size, full of air and life. “It rose!”
“And you doubted us,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest.
Us? No, I don’t doubt us at all. What’s happening here feels so right, even if I don’t fully understand it yet. It’s like finding a recipe that just works, no explanation needed.
Spinning around, I find that he’s inches away. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow.
And yet he comes even closer, my back pressing against the cool counter as his hands settle on my hips.
The kiss is gentle and sweet this time, different from our first urgent collision.
Slow, as if we have all the time in the world.
His lips are soft but sure, tasting faintly of the coffee we never got around to drinking.
Longing winds its way through me like smoke, curling into every corner.
I clutch his T-shirt, needing an anchor.
His tongue flicks across mine, and I moan into his mouth, the sound surprising me with its intensity.
I’m seconds away from losing it and jumping right on top of him, consequences be damned.
But he draws back, the kiss broken. Our breathing fills the quiet kitchen.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice.
His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He softly sweeps his knuckles down my cheek, the gesture so tender it makes my heart ache.
“I don’t want to stop, either. I don’t want to take things further in the kitchen, though.
I’d spend the rest of my life worried the health inspector would find out. ”
The laugh that ripples through me dispels some of the uncomfortable lust. My body is still humming, but I can think more clearly now. “Yeah. I get it.”
His grin, lopsided and adorable, steals my heart completely. There’s flour in his hair now, and his lips are slightly swollen from our kisses. “I really like this though. It’s unexpected, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about you in this way.”
“Same.” I bite my lip, tasting him there still.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze intense and searching. “I want to see where this goes, Alexis.”
I nod, nerves and excitement making my throat too thick for speaking. The weight of what we’re starting settles over me like a warm blanket.
“For now, though...” His gaze drifts to the sourdough, which waits patiently in its bowl.
“For now, we bake. Don’t worry. We’re on the same page. This cookbook comes first.”
He looks relieved, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It does. However, I’ll need to stand behind you and guide your hands through the next steps. That okay?”
I roll my eyes and smile, trying to keep things light even as my pulse races. “Oh, no. I would completely hate that.”
Turning around, I bat my lashes at him in an exaggerated fashion.
He steps up behind me, his broad chest firm and comforting against my back.
I can feel his heartbeat, quick but steady.
Together, we reach for the bowl, his hands covering mine as we remove the dough from its resting place.
The dough is soft and pillowy, alive beneath our joined touch.
“Unexpected” was a good way for him to describe this afternoon.
The word echoes in my mind as his fingers guide mine.
And even though I’m a little freaked out by how fast everything has shifted, I’m a big girl.
We don’t need to rush things, and we can keep work and romance separate.
It’s a lie that you can’t eat your cake—or, rather, sourdough—and have it too.