Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Noah
“Annnd... voilà!” I place the lit candle on the table and stand back to admire my handiwork. The red-and-white checkered tablecloth—borrowed from his Lawrence’s uncle’s Italian restaurant—transforms my bland dining area into something that actually resembles a date spot. “How does it look?”
Lawrence steps back, his head tilting as he takes in the whole scene.
The hastily-framed prints of old Italian tomato advertisements I found at a thrift shop yesterday catch the candlelight, their vintage colors somehow perfect against my otherwise blank walls.
From my phone speaker, the soundtrack to Big Night fills the space—only the best foodie movie ever made, though Alexis would probably argue for Julie & Julia.
“Romantic,” he says, and there’s no trace of his usual teasing.
“Then it’s perfect. Hey...” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how much his help means. “Thanks for helping me set this up, man. I know you’re not the biggest fan of Alexis?—”
“Of you and Alexis dating,” he corrects, holding up a finger. His expression shifts, something thoughtful crossing his features. “Alexis herself is cool, and actually... I might have been wrong about what I said.”
“Really?” My voice pitches in surprise, probably higher than I’d like.
He shrugs a shoulder, but I can tell this admission costs him something. “Yeah. You two seem to be balancing work and personal life pretty well. Maybe it can be done.”
I nod slowly, my chest warming with something I hadn’t expected—validation.
As my only real friend in the area, he has no clue how much his approval means to me.
These past months, his warnings about mixing business with pleasure have been a constant echo in my head.
“I think we’re doing a pretty good job.”
“It makes me a little jealous.” He grins and folds his arms, leaning back against my kitchen counter. The old Formica creaks slightly under his weight.
“I can find someone to set you up with. Alexis has friends.” The thought of Alexis’s friend Devin crosses my mind. She’s the friend who came in with her when we had our first meeting several weeks ago.
He chuckles, the sound echoing in my sparse apartment. “Maybe another time. When you aren’t running me ragged downstairs.”
“I’m not sure when we’ll get a break from that,” I laugh, but there’s truth in it. The bakery consumes most of my waking hours, and even now, I can smell the lingering scent of today’s sourdough on my clothes.
“I thought you wanted to take her out tonight.” He shifts against the counter, his casual clothes a stark contrast to what he wears at work. “What happened?”
“She had a rough day. I thought she might not be up to a night on the town.”
The weight of not taking her on a proper date—dressing up, making reservations somewhere fancy, the whole production—sits heavy on my shoulders.
But setting up my apartment to look like our own private restaurant feels right for tonight.
The cheesiness of it all might even make her laugh, which is what I’m really hoping for.
“She had a disappointing doctor’s appointment,” I explain, adjusting a fork that’s already perfectly placed. “And one of her friends had a health scare.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah.” I move to the oven, checking the pizza I made from scratch.
The cheese bubbles perfectly, the crust achieving that golden-brown color that means it’s almost ready.
This is the first time I’ve ever used the apartment’s oven for anything other than storage, and it feels fitting that Alexis should be the reason.
My fingers fidget with the oven mitt as I think about how this tiny space above the bakery is starting to feel less like a crash pad and more like a home—because of her.
Lawrence checks his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the candlelit room. “The milk delivery is here. You good?”
“Of course.” I grin, grateful for everything he’s done today. “Thank you for grabbing that.”
“Anytime.” He heads toward the door, pausing to shoot me a knowing look. “Have a good time tonight.”
“Yeah, I will.” The butterflies in my stomach start their familiar dance as he closes the door behind him.
Alexis and I haven’t seen each other in days—her reviewing schedule and my bakery hours creating a frustrating gap in our time together. After the hard day she’s had, I want everything tonight to be perfect. Not fancy, not elaborate, just... perfect for us.
I check the pizza again. The mozzarella has reached that ideal state of golden spots among the white, the fresh basil I scattered on top releasing its aroma. Right on time—the exterior stairs are creaking under footsteps. My heart rate picks up. She’s here.
Opening the door before she can knock, I meet her on the threshold.
The porch light casts a halo around her hair, and before she can get a word out, I pull her into my arms. My lips find hers in a kiss that’s been building for days.
She melts against me, her familiar perfume—something light and floral—mixing with the cooking smells from my apartment.
Her hands slide up my chest as I tighten my hold, never wanting to let her go.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and I’m pleased to see she’s smiling just as big as I am. Her eyes have that soft look that makes my chest tight.
“Are you hungry?” Taking her hand—her fingers cool from the evening air—I lead her into the apartment.
“I am.” She stops short just inside the door, her eyes widening as she takes in the transformed space. “Wow. It’s so... cute in here.”
“You like it? It’s not too cheesy?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I press my lips together to prevent more nervous questions from escaping.
“It’s awesome.” Her gaze travels from the checkered tablecloth to the vintage prints, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “And you made pizza?” She moves closer to the counter where I’ve set out plates and the salad I threw together.
“Yep.” I kiss her cheek, breathing in that moment of simple closeness. “I’ll cut you a slice. Would you like some wine?”
“Uh...” She sets her purse down on my couch, her movements careful, deliberate. “I would, but technically I’m supposed to be starting an elimination diet, and alcohol is the easiest thing to eliminate first.”
“Oh.” My gaze drops to the pizza—loaded with wheat in the crust and dairy in the cheese. Two of the biggest inflammatory foods I could have chosen. My stomach sinks. “I can make something other than pizza?—”
“No, no.” She settles into one of the chairs Lawrence and I brought up from the bakery storage room, her hand reaching out to touch mine briefly.
“I can’t do the whole thing now. With food reviewing, that would be impossible.
So I’ll do what I can and skip drinking.
I’ll have to do the full elimination diet when I’m not reviewing restaurants. ”
“And when will that be?”
A pause stretches between us, heavy with implication. “Whenever I get a full-time job where I don’t have to test food out.”
The weight of her words settles over the room like flour dust, a reminder of just how much is riding on my sourdough cookbook. Its success could change everything for both of us—her chance at a stable editing position, my validation as more than just a baker.
“Gotcha.” I turn to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of sparkling water instead of the wine I’d carefully selected earlier. As I pour her a glass, I notice the shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders seem to carry invisible weight. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” But her smile is tight, not reaching her eyes the way it did during our kiss.
My chest twists with concern. “What did your doctor tell you?”
She sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on the checkered tablecloth. “That flares can change over time. There’s no medication adjustment that can help, but if they stay this long I can try Botox or shooting lidocaine into my bladder through a catheter.”
The defeat in her voice cuts through me.
“But what about the elimination diet? He said?—”
“That it’s the best thing to try now.” She nods, but there’s resignation there. “Because triggers can also change over time.”
I process this as I retrieve the pizza from the oven, the heat from the pan warming my hands through the mitt. Using the pizza cutter with perhaps more force than necessary, I divide it into slices, the cheese stretching in golden strings.
“Starting the elimination diet now would get in the way of work, but you know that could be a temporary thing. If you figure out what’s causing the uptick in flares, you could have them under control sooner than you think.
It could prevent more flares in the future, lower stress. I know how much they stress you out.”
Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease between them that appears when she’s upset. “I don’t need your medical advice, Noah,” she snaps.
The sharpness in her tone hits me like cold water. It’s completely different from how she usually speaks to me, and judging by the way her eyes widen, she’s as shocked as I am.
I’m the one feeling the sting, though. I’m just trying to be supportive. Sitting across from her, I watch the candlelight flicker across her features as I sort through how to respond.
The words come out before I can stop them. “Are you being this defensive because of what your ex said about you?”
She goes completely still. “What are you talking about?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. We haven’t talked about Miles, haven’t discussed that article, and now I’ve stepped directly into a minefield.
“I, uh...” Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I read the article that Miles wrote.”
Pain flashes across her face like lightning. “Where did you find that?” Her voice has gone hollow, cold as January air.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Um, online. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”