Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Alexis
My phone rings right as I’m parking the car on the street across from Rye Again.
The late afternoon sun catches the bakery’s windows, turning them golden, and I let myself stare at the familiar storefront for just a moment before extracting my phone from my purse.
My shoulders drop when I see Elaine’s name on the screen instead of Noah’s.
Even though this baking lesson I’m about to attend is technically work—research for editing his cookbook—it feels nothing like it. The flutter in my stomach has nothing to do with professional obligations and everything to do with the memory of Noah’s lips on mine from our last encounter.
“Hi, Elaine.” I keep my voice neutral, professional.
“Alexis. Glad I caught you.” Her tone is all business, as always. “You know the farm-to-table tasting menu that Field and Fork is having in a couple weeks? One day only.”
My mind races. I haven’t heard about it, but admitting that might make me look out of touch with the local food scene. “Uh-huh. Yeah.”
“I’d like you to cover it.”
The words hit me like a weight dropping into my stomach.
I suck in a sharp breath, my free hand tightening on the steering wheel.
Special tasting events used to excite me—the carefully curated courses, the wine pairings, the chance to experience a chef’s full vision.
But that was before my interstitial cystitis turned them into endurance tests.
These events are marathons of sitting. Three, sometimes four hours at a table, course after course arriving in steady succession.
There’s the mental checklist that never stops running—menu items to remember, flavor profiles to analyze, presentation details to note, the chef’s explanations to absorb.
Missing even five minutes to run to the bathroom could mean missing a crucial course or the chef’s introduction to a signature dish.
And with my condition, regular bathroom breaks aren’t just preferable—they’re essential. Even on good days.
The thought of a flare hitting during the event makes my chest tighten. I can already imagine the burning sensation building while I’m trapped at the table, trying to smile and take notes while my body screams for relief.
I should say no. Every fiber of my being wants to say no.
But my bank account speaks louder than my body’s protests. Until I land that full-time editing position, I need every freelance dollar I can get.
“Sounds great.” The words come out through clenched teeth, my jaw tight enough to ache.
Elaine knows about my condition—I’d mentioned it once, briefly, when I’d had to reschedule a meeting due to a particularly bad flare.
But she’d simply nodded and moved on, never bringing it up again.
I’ve taken that as a sign that she expects me to handle it without letting it affect my work.
And I’m not about to start complaining now, not when I need these assignments.
“Excellent. I’ll get you the ticket and forward you the info.”
“Thank you.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else. Typical Elaine—efficient to a fault.
I sit in my car for a moment, trying to convince myself it will be fine. Just one evening. If I’m careful the week leading up to it—avoid trigger foods, stay hydrated, manage my stress—maybe I can prevent a flare.
But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself. My last flare came out of nowhere, no warning, no obvious trigger. That’s the cruelest part of this condition—its unpredictability.
Not much longer, I tell myself. Nail this cookbook edit, impress Kitchen Lore Publishing, and they’ll offer me that full-time position. Then no more racing between restaurant reviews and food events.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. My heart does a little skip, hoping it’s Noah, maybe checking if I’m running late. But the number isn’t one I recognize. I tap to open it and immediately wish I hadn’t.
You ruined my life. Watch your back.
The phone slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering onto the passenger seat. My hands are shaking as I retrieve it, staring at the message like it might explain itself if I look hard enough.
What does this mean? A scam? Wrong number? Some cruel prank?
My fingers tremble as I type back:
Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.
I watch the message try to send, the little bar creeping across the screen. Then it fails, marking itself as “unable to be delivered.”
That’s... odd. I try again. Same result.
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm afternoon. Maybe I should show Noah. But what would I say? “Hey, before we talk about bread, someone might be threatening me”?
No. I’m probably overreacting. It’s probably nothing.
I lock my phone and shove it into my purse, forcing myself to focus on the immediate future. Noah. Our lesson. The kiss we shared last time that’s been replaying in my mind for days.
My reflection in the rearview mirror shows the nervousness I’m trying to hide. I smooth my hair, check my lipstick, and take three deep breaths before stepping out of the car.
The walk across the street feels longer than it should.
Each step carries me closer to Rye Again’s door, closer to Noah, closer to finding out if the kiss meant as much to him as it did to me.
The late afternoon sun warms my back, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that floods my cheeks when I think about how his hands felt on my waist, how his breath hitched when I?—
Stop. Professional. This is work.
Except it isn’t, not really, and we both know it.
As I approach the bakery’s front door, my heart pounds hard enough that I’m sure people passing on the sidewalk can hear it.
Noah and I have exchanged texts since the kiss—friendly, warm even—but texts can hide so much.
What if he’s had time to think and decided it was a mistake?
What if he wants to go back to the safe distance of editor and author, nothing more?
The thought makes my stomach drop. If he says the kiss was a mistake, if he gives me that polite, distant smile that means he’s putting walls back up...
Hold it together, I coach myself. Whatever happens, you’re an adult. You can handle this. And if you need to cry, you’ll wait until you get home.
I pause on the front stoop, hand raised to knock, trying to regulate my breathing.
The familiar scent of baking bread drifts through the door, usually comforting, now just another reminder of everything that’s at stake.
This isn’t just about a kiss or a potential relationship.
It’s about the cookbook, my career, his business, the delicate balance we’re trying to maintain between personal and professional.
Through the door’s window, I spot movement in the kitchen.
Noah and Lawrence emerge, both holding beer bottles, and my stomach does a complete flip at the sight of Noah.
He’s wearing that grey henley that fits him perfectly, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and his hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.
Our eyes meet through the glass. For a split second, neither of us moves. Then I raise my hand in a small, uncertain wave.
The grin that spreads across his face is immediate and genuine, lighting up his whole expression in a way that makes my anxiety evaporate like morning mist. Whatever doubts I had, whatever fears about rejection—they’re gone. That smile tells me everything I need to know.
The threatening text, the upcoming tasting event, all of it fades into background noise.
Lawrence reaches the door first, unlocking it with the easy movement of someone who’s done it a thousand times. “Hey, Alexis. Come on in.”
He smiles and steps back, gesturing me to enter. “We were celebrating a hundred score from the health inspector,” he explains, raising his beer bottle slightly.
“Oh, wow.” The smile that spreads across my face is genuine. After everything Noah’s been through with his previous restaurant, this must mean the world to him. “That’s amazing.”
“Want a beer?” Lawrence offers.
“No, thanks.” I fidget with my hair for a second before catching myself and dropping my hand.
Noah still hasn’t said anything, but I can feel him watching me. His presence fills the space between us like something tangible, warm and magnetic, pulling me toward him even though neither of us has moved.
“I should head out anyway.” Lawrence tosses his empty bottle into the recycling bin with practiced ease. “You two have a lesson to get to.” He glances at Noah, something meaningful in his expression. “Think about what I said.”
A flash of annoyance crosses Noah’s features, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. He composes himself quickly, but there’s a tightness around his eyes. “Thanks, Lawrence. See you later.”
“Bye, Alexis.” Lawrence gives me a warm smile on his way out.
“Bye,” I murmur, already distracted by being alone with Noah.
The door closes with a soft click, the sound somehow final. We’re alone. The bakery feels different without customers, without staff—intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
I turn to Noah, curiosity overcoming nervousness. “What was he talking about?”
Noah shakes his head, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Boring bakery stuff.”
And then he’s moving toward me with purpose, no hesitation in his stride. His hands cup my face and his lips find mine in a kiss that’s nothing like our first one. That was tentative, questioning. This is certain. This is an answer to every doubt I had walking in here.
He kisses me like he’s been thinking about it since I left, like he’s been counting the minutes until he could do it again.
There’s no hesitation, no holding back for fear of who might see through the windows.
His thumbs stroke along my jawline as his mouth moves against mine, and I melt into him, my hands finding their way to his chest.