Page 51 of We Can Do
“Won’t?”
Devin laughs lightly. “Look desperate. I’m pretty sure Noah’s crazy about you.”
My heart does a little skip. It seems so basic, so simple—two people who like each other equally, who are on the same page. And yet it’s also impossibly rare. I’ve dated enough to know that timing and feelings rarely align this perfectly.
I’m just praying I don’t screw it up somehow. That I don’t chase him away with my baggage, my health issues, my complicated relationship with trust. We’ve already overcome so much—my review of Street Cucina that helped destroy his first restaurant, the awkwardness of me being assigned to review Rye Again, the discovery that I’m his editor. This new chapter of our relationship is still so fresh, so fragile. I want it to be a long chapter. I want it to fill pages and pages.
Maybe even the rest of the story.
Chapter Nineteen
Alexis
The Field and Fork parking lot spreads before us like a puzzle with no empty spaces. This place has been celebrated for sourcing nearly every ingredient locally and it’s been written up all over the country. It’s no shock that it’s a full house.
Noah circles the rows slowly, his truck’s engine purring as we search for any gap between the gleaming cars.
“Wow.” He finally spots an opening at the far end. “It’s packed. Do you know if it’s sold out?”
I shift in my seat, my anxiety and frustration mounting, the pressure on my bladder already making itself known. “Probably. People go nuts for this place.”
The truck lurches slightly as Noah navigates over a pothole, and I press my hand to my abdomen. The ride from Pine Island was thirty minutes of trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist when you have interstitial cystitis. Every bump in the road sent a little spike of discomfort through me. And now, I have to sit through a long, possibly multi-hour tasting event.
My mind drifts to the box left on my doorstep – newspaper clippings of every negative review I’ve written, with that note:This is all your fault. I will ruin your career like you ruined mine.My hands tremble slightly as I smooth my dress over my thighs.
“You okay?” Noah’s warm fingers find mine, and his thumb traces gentle circles over my knuckles.
The simple touch grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of panic. “Just on edge. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“You won’t. You’re an amazing writer, and I promise I’ll take detailed notes if you have to miss anything.”
The earnestness in his voice makes my chest tight. “I appreciate it.”
But I can’t bring myself to unbuckle my seatbelt yet. The words tumble out before I can stop them. “This... reviewing... I don’t know how much longer I can do it. Working on your cookbook, that’s what I really love. I just want to edit.”
“Do you think you’re burnt out?”
I let my head fall back against the headrest, feeling the weight of exhaustion that goes beyond physical tiredness. “Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“What?” I turn my head just enough to study his profile in the evening light filtering through the windshield.
“You’ll get the editing job.” His voice carries such certainty, like he’s stating a fact rather than offering hope. “I know you will, and then you’ll be able to stop doing things like this.”
“Thank you.”
My fingers hover over the seatbelt release. Part of me wants to suggest we leave right now, pick up sandwiches from that little deli on Market Street, find a quiet spot by the water where I can stretch out on a blanket and not worry about sitting properly or taking notes or whether the owner is watching my every move.
But this is my job. For now.
Noah appears at my door offering his hand. Smiling, I click the seatbelt open and slide my fingers between his as he guides me out. His touch grounding.
“Ready?” Noah gently squeezes my hand.
I take I deep breath and nod.I’ve got this.
The restaurant sprawls across what must have been a grand estate a century ago. The original farmhouse has been lovingly restored, with wide porches wrapped around it like embracing arms. New decks extend from various levels, creating intimate spaces for outdoor dining. Massive oaks and maples tower overhead, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows across the weathered wood.
