Page 17 of We Can Do
Noah scoffs, the sound sharp. “What, did you expect me to just phone it in?”
“I...” My mouth hangs open, words failing me. “No, of course not. That was a compliment.” It’s impossible to keep the edge out of my voice. Didn’t we just agree to a cease fire?
I sigh, the sound heavy in the space between us. Obviously, this is going to be trickier than I realized even a few seconds ago. Noah holds a lot of anger against me for what happened in New York, and the air between us needs to be cleared. Three years of resentment doesn’t just evaporate.
Over Noah’s shoulder, I catch Devin giving me a thumbs up, checking if I’m okay. I smile quickly, praying that Noah doesn’t notice the silent communication, then turn my attention back to him.
“Noah...”
“Uh huh?” He looks out the window, watching people pass on the street, avoiding my eyes.
I shift in my chair, the wood creaking softly. “How about we start fresh? Like we never even met each other.”
He turns back to me, and I can sense the resistance melting away like ice in spring, slow but inevitable. “Sure.” He sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, his whole body seeming to settle.
“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture nervous. “If we’re going to work on this cookbook together, I’d like to get to know you. The real you. It would really help.”
He runs his thumb around the rim of his coffee cup, the movement hypnotic. The ceramic must still be warm. “And what about you? Am I supposed to get to know you too?”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
His eyes flick to mine, and it feels like he steals a little bit of my soul. Or, rather, silently asks for it and I swiftly respond by turning it over, no questions asked. The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. When he speaks, his voice is rich and deep. Slow and sweet. Pure Vermont syrup dripping through the air, coating everything with its sweetness.
“Then let’s get started.”
Chapter Eight
Noah
I fold my hands on the polished wooden table and meet Alexis’s gaze head-on. The late morning light filters through Rye Again’s front windows, casting geometric shadows across the floor between us. “What would you like to know about me?”
Her chin lifts just a fraction—barely noticeable, but I catch it. The movement leaves me uncertain whether she’s lowering her defenses or reinforcing them. That uncertainty grates at me. In any confrontation, knowing where your opponent stands gives you the advantage. With Alexis, I’m flying blind.
“How did you get into this work?” Her voice carries a professional tone, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath. “Have you always wanted to bake?”
“I always wanted to cook.” The correction comes automatically. “It was kind of mine and my dad’s thing. When he got home from work, we would go through the cookbooks he was always picking up and find what looked the most delicious. On the weekends we’d take our time getting it all together. Walk to the grocery store, maybe the farmer’s market to get ingredients.”
Her eyes brighten, transforming her whole face. “That sounds awesome.”
“Yeah.” The smile breaks free before I can stop it. “It was. My dad, he’s this tough, quiet dude. Built like a brick wall, hands rough from years of manual labor. It’s almost impossible to know what he’s thinking or feeling. When we cook, though, he opens up.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a construction worker in Baltimore.” I notice she hasn’t pulled out a notepad or her phone. We’re having what feels like an actual conversation—except the flow runs in only one direction. “What about you? Where did you grow up?”
“Outside of Chicago.” She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not an interesting story. My mom is a nurse—so is my sister. My dad is a mechanic. They were awesome parents.”
The shrug that follows seems designed to close the topic. There has to be more beneath that dismissive gesture. There always is.
But what do I care? Despite agreeing to play her “get to know each other” game, I still intend stay on guard. At any moment she could decide to change tactics and rip the rug out from under me.
“What about your mom?” She shifts in her chair. “Does she like to cook?”
The question lands like a physical blow to my chest. “I don’t know. I never knew her. Well, I did—but not that I can remember. She died when I was about one.”
Her eyes go wide, her whole body freezing in place. It’s the look I’ve seen countless times before—that terrible mixture of pity and discomfort that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry.” The words emerge so quietly they’re almost lost in the ambient noise of the bakery.
