Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Noah
“Rosemary is out,” I announce, sticking my head through the kitchen’s swinging doors. The words carry over the grinding of coffee beans, the hissing of French presses and the morning chatter of customers.
Lawrence glances up from the register, gives me a quick thumbs up, and taps the rosemary sourdough button on the point-of-sale screen, marking it unavailable.
The morning rush is finally winding down—that sweet spot between the early coffee-and-bread crowd and the lunch folks who’ll trickle in later.
The display case that was packed at seven this morning sits nearly empty now, just a few lonely loaves scattered across the shelves.
That hollow, picked-clean look fills me with satisfaction.
Every empty shelf means someone’s taking my bread home, means the bakery’s working.
I step behind the counter, wiping flour dust from my hands onto my apron—the black one with “Rye Again” embroidered across the chest. The dining room spreads out before me, morning light streaming through the tall windows and catching the dust motes floating in the air.
Tables are still occupied with late-morning customers nursing their French presses, but I scan the room anyway, searching for familiar blonde hair, those bright eyes that have been haunting me since yesterday.
She won’t be here. I know she won’t, but I can’t stop myself from looking for her. Our next lesson isn’t until this afternoon. But my chest tightens with hope anyway, some ridiculous part of me thinking she might have stopped by just because.
We texted last night—nothing serious, just silly things really.
But her words on my phone screen weren’t enough.
All night, I felt the phantom pressure of her lips against mine, the way she’d melted into me in the kitchen yesterday when flour dusted both our faces.
The memory makes my pulse quicken even now, standing here in the middle of my bustling bakery.
This afternoon can’t come fast enough. Maybe after our lesson, I’ll suggest dinner.
Nothing fancy—we could grab something casual, or better yet, I could cook for her at my place.
The apartment above the bakery isn’t much, but the kitchen works.
I haven’t cooked a real meal there since moving in six months ago, but for Alexis. ..
“Good morning?” I ask Lawrence, trying to shake off thoughts of her.
“Check it out yourself.” He nods at the point-of-sale screen, pride evident in his voice.
I flip the device around and pull up the morning’s sales report.
The number staring back at me makes my heart skip—we’ve already beaten last week’s best day, and it’s not even noon.
Portsmouth is embracing sourdough bread like I’d hoped but hadn’t dared expect.
After everything that happened in New York, this feels like vindication.
“Make sure you use the sanitizer on the tables,” Lawrence calls out to one of the front-of-house staff, a kid named Marcus who started last week. “Not just the regular cleaner. The health inspector is coming any day now.”
The words hit me like ice water. My stomach plummets straight through the floor.
“Wait. What?” The words come out strangled. “The health inspector is due?”
“Yep.” Lawrence pulls out his phone, scrolling to his calendar app. He turns the screen toward me, pointing at this week. “Could be today, could be next week. They gave us a window.”
The good mood evaporates instantly. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and I actually have to grip the counter to steady myself.
My eyes dart around the bakery, suddenly seeing every potential violation, every tiny thing that could go wrong.
I spot a few crumbs near the baseboard. Is that dust on the light fixture?
When did we last clean behind the refrigerator?
“You okay?” Lawrence’s voice sounds distant.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah.” The lie tastes bitter. I’m not okay. I’m freaking the hell out right now. Spiraling into full panic mode.
Without another word, I grab a clean towel from the stack and launch into action. The health inspector could walk through that door any second. Everything needs to be perfect.
I start with the obvious—checking that every container of common allergens has proper labeling.
Flour, eggs, dairy, nuts. The labels need to be clear, dated, visible.
Then the cleaning schedule posted on the wall.
My hands shake as I verify every employee’s initials, making sure no one missed their assigned tasks.
The hand-washing station—soap full? Paper towels stocked? Water temperature correct?
My vision narrows as I move through the bakery like a man possessed. I scrub the already-clean prep surfaces until they shine. Check every refrigerator thermometer, documenting the readings in the log. Verify that all the staff are wearing their aprons.
The memory of Street Cucina’s inspection crashes over me.
The inspector’s frown when she found the water temperature off by two degrees.
The way she’d marked her clipboard when she spotted that open flour bag on the floor.
It wasn’t the only reason my restaurant failed, but it was part of the avalanche that buried my dreams.
“Hey, man, it’s okay.” Lawrence appears at my elbow as I attack the back counter with antiseptic spray. “The place looks good.”
“There’s always something that could be wrong.” My voice comes out tight, strained. I yank open the walk-in cooler, checking the thermometer for the third time in ten minutes. Exactly thirty-eight degrees. Perfect. But what if it fluctuates? What if?—
Lawrence doesn’t argue. Instead, he starts helping, understanding that nothing he says will calm me down right now.
Together, we verify the hand soap dispensers are full, the sanitizer stations are stocked, the first aid kit is complete and accessible.
We check dates on everything, toss anything questionable, reorganize the dry storage so everything sits six inches off the floor.
The current score posted on our wall reads 99. One point off perfect, and even that single point feels like failure. If we score anything less this time, I might as well pack up and leave town. The food world is small, gossip travels fast, and people remember. They remember everything.
Fifteen minutes before closing, she walks in.
The health inspector doesn’t look like much—medium height, brown hair in a ponytail, clipboard in hand. But she might as well be holding my future in that manila folder. She flashes her badge with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Health inspection,” she announces, though everyone in the bakery has already figured that out from the way I’ve gone rigid behind the counter.
For the next thirty minutes, I try to breathe normally while watching her every move from the corner of my eye.
She checks the refrigerator temperatures—I watch her nod approval.
She inspects the hand-washing station—water temperature perfect.
She examines our food storage, our labeling system, the cleanliness of our equipment.
She even checks behind the mixer, the spot I’d obsessed over this morning.
My hands won’t stop shaking. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air. Every time she makes a note on her clipboard, my heart stops. Is that good or bad? What did she find?
Lawrence keeps the front running smoothly while I hover, trying not to look like I’m hovering, failing miserably at appearing casual.
Finally—finally—she finishes her inspection and starts filling out paperwork. The scratch of her pen on paper sounds like thunder in my ears.
“Nice job.” She tears off a certificate and hands it to me.
I stare at the paper, unable to process what I’m seeing at first. Then the number comes into focus.
“One hundred,” I read out loud, my voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“The place looks good.” She smiles, and it transforms her face from stern inspector to regular person. “Tastes good, too. My husband brought home a loaf last week. Best sourdough I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you.” The words come out as barely more than a whisper. Relief floods through me so intensely my knees actually wobble. “I hope to see you in sometime yourself. Here. Take some home.”
I grab a bag and start filling it with every remaining loaf from today—rosemary might be gone, but there’s classic, whole wheat, and a sesame seed. I push the bag across the counter to her.
She laughs, a warm sound. “We can’t eat all this, but my chickens will love it. Thanks.”
“Tell your chickens thank you,” I say, immediately realizing how insane that sounds. But I don’t care. We got a perfect score.
The moment the door closes behind her, I spin toward Lawrence, who’s methodically counting down the register.
“One hundred,” I say again, like I need to make it real.
“I know!” He abandons the cash and claps me on the back hard enough to knock me forward a step. “We should celebrate.”
I shrug, suddenly unsure what celebrating even looks like anymore. These days, my whole life revolves around flour and water and heat. Wake up, bake bread, sell bread, prep for tomorrow’s bread, sleep, repeat. Anything outside that cycle feels foreign.
But Lawrence has his own idea of celebration.
After the last employee leaves and we lock up, he jogs down to the liquor store on the corner and returns with a six-pack of local beer.
Nothing fancy, just something cold and congratulatory.
We crack open two bottles right there in the kitchen, surrounded by tomorrow’s rising dough.
“To an auspicious beginning.” He raises his bottle in a toast, the amber glass catching the overhead lights.
“Hopefully.” I clink my bottle against his and take a long pull. The beer is crisp, slightly bitter, perfect after the stress of the day.
“Not hopefully. I know for sure.” He leans back against the stainless steel counter, completely at ease in this space that still sometimes feels surreal to me. “Hey, what is the dough that’s resting in fridge B for?”
“Oh.” The question catches me off guard, and butterflies suddenly flutter through my chest. “For Alexis. I’m teaching her to bake.”
His expression shifts to amused disbelief, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “You’re... teaching her... to... bake?” He draws out each word like he’s trying to process them. “What happened to?—”
“I know, I know.” I wave off whatever he’s about to say, not wanting to revisit my previous opinions about food critics and reviewers. “I was harsh on her. She was just doing her job with that review of Street Cucina.”
“You said that all food reviewers are failed cooks masquerading as intellectuals.” His voice carries no judgment, just mild amazement at my reversal. “And that?—”
“Yeah, I know what I said.” I hoist myself up to sit on the counter, the cool steel pressing through my jeans. “I can be an asshole sometimes, you know?”
He snorts into his beer. “Damn. She’s got you good.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Actually, she asked me to teach her some of my recipes that are in the cookbook. It’s so that she can better understand the depth of the project.”
He nods slowly, processing this. “That makes sense. So you’re saying there’s nothing personal to it?”
“Well...” I can’t fight the grin spreading across my face.
“There it is.” He pokes me with his elbow, nearly making me spill my beer. “Spill.”
I shrug, torn between wanting to tell him everything but also not wanting to do Alexis a disservice by sharing something personal between us. “She’s great,” I finally say, knowing it’s completely inadequate.
“She doesn’t have the seductiveness of day-old sourdough bread?” He wiggles his eyebrows, throwing my own stupid words back at me.
“Not in the least,” I laugh, shaking my head at my own previous ridiculousness. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“That’s good, man. I’m happy for you.” But even as he says it, his smile dims slightly, something shifting in his expression.
“What?”
“Uh...” He stares down into his beer bottle like it might hold answers.
“Come on—what?”
“It’s just...” He scratches the back of his head, a nervous gesture I’ve learned means he’s about to say something I won’t like. “I know how important your career is to you. It’s number one, am I right?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I hesitate, the automatic “yes” catching in my throat.
Because yes, it’s number one. It has to be.
It’s been number one by necessity and choice for so long I don’t remember what it feels like to prioritize anything else.
My years in New York killed every relationship I tried to maintain—college friends who stopped calling when I could never make plans, fellow cooks who drifted away when I couldn’t grab drinks after shifts.
And dating? That was its own special nightmare.
Women who wanted the time I couldn’t give, who needed attention I was too exhausted to provide.
Or worse, the ones who just wanted to be seen with an “up and coming star” baker, who cared more about my potential fame than who I actually was.
They’d show up for the restaurant openings and food festivals but disappear when I needed to work sixteen-hour days.
“It’s number one,” I finally confirm, but the words taste sour, like milk just starting to turn.
“I’m happy for you, Noah.” Lawrence looks me straight in the eye, and the seriousness there makes it impossible to look away.
“Just be careful. You’re mixing work with pleasure here, and things can get messy.
I know how much you want this book to be a success.
Blurring the lines with Alexis... it might complicate the process. ”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, that Alexis and I can keep things separate and professional. But the words die before they form because he’s right.
There’s a reason companies have policies against employees dating. When personal relationships fall apart, they take professional ones with them. I’ve seen it happen—restaurants torn apart by divorcing business partners, bakeries ruined by romantic drama.
And yet.
And yet the thought of ending things with Alexis before they’ve really begun makes my chest ache. I haven’t felt this kind of lightness in years, this giddy anticipation that makes me check my phone constantly for her texts. If I walked away now, I’d regret it forever.
So there’s only one option.
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, taking another swig of beer.
Very, very careful—whatever the hell that means.