Page 31 of We Can Do
“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.
Chapter Twelve
Noah
I watch Alexis’s car pull away from the curb, her taillights growing smaller as she navigates toward the bridge that’ll take her back to Pine Island. My hand lifts in a half-wave even though she can’t see me anymore. The evening air carries the salt-sweet smell from the harbor, mixing with the lingering scent of sourdough from the bakery below.
There are at least a dozen things waiting for me upstairs—invoices to review, tomorrow’s supply order to finalize, that email from my agent about the cookbook timeline—but my feet refuse to move. They’re planted on the sidewalk like they’ve grown roots right through the concrete. It feels like the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time just drove off in a sensible sedan with a Pine Island resident sticker on the bumper.
I’ll see her again, of course. Our next meeting is already scheduled, circled in red on my calendar like it’s some kind of holiday. Just not soon enough.
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it. I shake my head at my own ridiculous behavior and finally convincemy legs to work, heading for the exterior stairs that lead to my apartment above Rye Again. The metal stairs creak under my weight—something else to add to the maintenance list—and I fish my keys from my pocket.
The door sticks like it always does. I shoulder it open and step into my sparse living space. Today was insane—the kind of insane that makes you question if you’re actually awake or still dreaming. The good kind of insane.
Yes, I’ve fantasized about Alexis. More times than I care to admit, usually late at night when I’m supposed to be reviewing recipes or calculating flour costs. Her laugh echoing through my empty apartment. Her fingers intertwined with mine. Her lips... But did I ever think those fantasies might actually materialize into something real?
Absolutely not. Not a chance in hell.
And now that I’ve tasted her kiss, felt the way she melts against me, I realize that some of the animosity I was harboring had nothing to do with her old review or my general feelings about food reviewers. Yeah, that was part of it—the wound to my pride, the damage to my reputation. But a bigger part, the part I kept trying to stuff down like over-proofed dough, was the attraction that hit me like a punch to the gut the first time I saw her.
When she walked into Street Cucina three years ago, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world for the first time. She moved through my restaurant with this confident grace, like she belonged in every space she entered. Even before we spoke, before she identified herself as the reviewer from the paper, I held onto this glowing, probably pathetic hope that something could happen between us. That maybe she was just a customer who’d want to come back, again and again.
Then came the interview, and she ran circles around me with her questions. Sharp, incisive, getting right to the heart of what Iwas trying to do with the restaurant. I was even more impressed, if that was possible. She understood food in a way that went beyond just taste—she got the story behind it, the intention, the love.
Until her review came out. Reading her words—seeing her describe my food as “a desperate attempt at authenticity that falls flat”—was like watching someone take a baseball bat to everything I’d built. Her shredding me to pieces in print was only the beginning of a slow descent into the abyss that ended with Street Cucina’s doors closing for good.
But now look where we are. I have a new business that’s actually thriving, lines out the door most mornings, and something—whatever this thing is—blossoming between me and Alexis. It’s as if the universe finally got its act together and acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, I deserve some good in my life after all.
Still grinning like an idiot, I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge. The fluorescent bulb flickers—another thing for the maintenance list—illuminating the pathetic contents. A wilted grocery store salad that’s probably past its prime, a block of cheese that might be developing its own ecosystem, and a jar of pickles that’s been there since I moved in.
I close the fridge with a sigh and check the freezer instead. My options are equally uninspiring: a frozen meatloaf that looks like it survived the Ice Age, or frozen pad Thai from that place downtown that’s decent when fresh but turns to rubber when reheated. I could go out for dinner—there’s that new gastropub everyone’s been talking about—or hit the grocery store like a normal human being. But the stack of Rye Again paperwork on my desk is practically growing taller just looking at it, and I really don’t have time for a food run.
My phone rings as I’m contemplating whether frozen meatloaf would be improved by drowning it in hot sauce. I pullit from my pocket with embarrassing speed, hoping it’s Alexis. Maybe she’s had second thoughts about dinner with her friend. Maybe she misses me already and wants to come back tonight. We could order takeout, eat it straight from the containers while sitting on my couch that’s seen better days...
But the screen shows “Dad” with that photo from last Christmas—him wearing the apron I sent him that says “Bread Winner” across the front.
My smile evaporates. I close the freezer door with more force than necessary and trudge to the couch, still staring at the phone like it might change its mind about who’s calling. The ringtone seems louder with each pulse.
I love my dad. Really, I do. He raised me alone after Mom died, never complained, always showed up for every school event, every baseball game, every milestone. And usually, I love talking to him. But lately, our conversations have been strained, like we’re reading from different scripts. He thinks I’m burning myself out. I think I’m building something that matters.
The option of just not answering flits across my mind. I could claim I was in the walk-in cooler, no signal. But I’m too obsessed with being a good son, too well-trained in the guilt that comes from growing up with a single parent who sacrificed everything. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. So I hit the answer button and inject false cheer into my voice.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, bud. How’s it going? Busy day?” His voice carries that concerned undertone I’ve been hearing more and more lately.
“Yeah, we were slammed.” I sink into the couch and prop my feet up on the coffee table that’s really just a trunk I found at a yard sale. The moment my feet are elevated, they start throbbing, as if they’ve finally been given permission to admit how much they hurt. Every hour on my feet, every lap between the kitchen and the front counter, suddenly makes itself known.
“Good, good.” He sounds distracted, and there’s noise in the background—shopping carts clanging, the beep of scanners, someone asking about organic tomatoes.
“Where are you?”
“At the grocery store. I’m making stuffed bell peppers tonight.” There’s a rustling, probably him checking his list.
“That sounds good.” My chest tightens with unexpected nostalgia. For a moment, I wish I could be back home with him in Baltimore, taking our time selecting the freshest peppers, the ripest tomatoes. We’d cook in his kitchen with the ancient radio playing classic rock, the window cracked open even though the neighbors complain about the music. We’d argue about whether to use rice or quinoa in the filling, but it would be the good kind of arguing, the kind that ends with laughter.
“You made anything good lately?” He asks, and I can hear him moving through the store.
