Page 4 of We Can Do
She blinks three times fast, like she’s processing a foreign language. “A... cup of coffee?”
“Yeah. We can sit in my office.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and unclench my jaw, trying to look casual instead of defensive, trying not to look like a man whose entire future depends on the next hour. “You want to interview me, right? Not just taste the bread?”
“Right.” She straightens her spine, and something shifts in her expression—vulnerability maybe, or guilt. “Listen, Noah, I...I didn’t know this was your place.”
The words hang between us like a challenge. Or maybe an apology.
“If you knew, you wouldn’t have come?”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again like a fish gasping for air. Nothing comes out. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and heavy.
“It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it.” And I mean that—at least the last part. If I never have to think about her review again, if I never have to remember reading those words that turned my work into a punchline, it’ll be too soon.
“This way.” I lead her back through the kitchen, past the prep stations where tomorrow’s loaves are already taking shape. I stop at the coffee station to fill two mugs—my hands are steady now, small miracle there. The coffee’s good, single-origin Ethiopian that costs more than I should be spending, but if you’re going to do something, do it right. Then it’s down the narrow hallway that still smells like fresh paint to my office, which is generous if you call a converted storage closet an office.
Morning light streams through the single window, highlighting the disaster that is my desk—invoices, supplier catalogs, recipe notes written on napkins and the backs of receipts. I shove a box of files off the spare chair so she can sit, papers shifting with a whisper. She’s not here to review my organizational skills, and I couldn’t give less of a damn what she thinks about anything except the bread. Nothing else matters.
“So.” I drop into my chair, the old wood creaking under my weight, and immediately wish I hadn’t looked at her. The morning sun turns her into something out of a painting—all golden skin and shimmer. The green and gold on her eyelids catches the light like she’s some kind of makeup artist, every line precise and perfect. There’s an artistry to it that speaks of creativity, of caring about details.
What does she do when she’s not destroying restaurants? Paint? Dance? Does she create anything, or does she just tear down what others build? The thought catches me off guard, unwanted curiosity about the woman across from me, and I shove it down hard. The only thing I should care about is how she became heartless enough to destroy a man’s dream with a few paragraphs.
She shifts in the chair, the leather squeaking slightly, and clears her throat. Her fingers drum once on her knee before she catches herself and stops. “First of all, thank you for having me.”
I grunt. It’s all I can manage without saying something I’ll regret.
Her eyes narrow—just for a second, a flash of steel—before she smooths her expression into something professionally pleasant, the mask sliding into place. “I had the house sourdough. It’s...amazing.”
My traitorous heart does a little skip. I keep my face blank, carved from stone, but inside I’m pathetic, desperate for crumbs of approval from the woman who ruined me. One word of praise and I’m ready to forgive everything. Weak.
“The texture, the layers.” She shakes her head slowly, and there’s something genuine in her expression, something that might be actual appreciation. “The ratio between crust and crumb is...”
“I know bread.” The words come out sharp, each one a bullet. It’s true, but it’s also a challenge—a reminder of our last encounter, when she demolished everything I thought I knew about food. When she turned my work into a joke.
Her gaze drops to the desk, studying the grain of the wood like it holds secrets. “You just opened, uh, last month?—”
“Last week.”
“Right. Last week.” Another throat clear. She pulls out her phone, but the screen’s cracked to hell, spider web fracturesmaking it impossible to read. The damage looks fresh. After a few futile taps, her fingers sliding uselessly across the broken glass, she gives up and grabs a notepad from her bag. She flips through it, pages rustling, clearly looking for something that isn’t there. The pages are blank. Completely blank.
“Why Portsmouth?”
“A combination of interest, need, and good real estate.”
“Right.” She scribbles something, though I can’t imagine what—maybe just marks to look busy. “And... do you—did you always want to make sourdough?”
The questions are amateur hour. Nothing like three years ago when she showed up at Street Cucina in New York and eviscerated me with surgical precision. Her questions then were so sharp I could barely stammer out answers, each one designed to expose every weakness, every shortcut, every compromise. Now she’s floundering, grasping at straws, those empty notepad pages mocking her. She looks lost, unprepared, nothing like the composed destroyer of dreams I remember.
“You doing okay?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice. This reversal of fortune is too good, too perfect.
She huffs, shoving the notepad back in her bag with enough force to make the leather protest. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You spent years in New York’s best bakeries and patisseries. Boucher. Lumière. Places people would kill to work at.” Her voice gains strength, finding its footing. “Why come here to Portsmouth and open a little shop? Was it really because of good real estate and need?” Her chin lifts, and there’s the fighter I remember. “Because there are already two bakeries here specializing in bread.”
The anger I’ve been holding back for three years surges up like lava, hot and destructive. My hands grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles go white, until the wood creaks under thepressure. “Why?” The word comes out rough, scraped raw. “You want to know why I came to a place the rest of the world drives through without stopping? Why I’m here in a town where most people wouldn’t know grissini from ciabatta if it bit them?”
She swallows hard, her throat working. The confidence drains from her face as she realizes what she’s unleashed. She knows what’s coming, probably regrets asking, but it’s too late now. The door’s open and everything I’ve been holding back is about to pour out.
