Page 29 of We Can Do
“That’s true.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I have an idea for what we can do in the meantime.”
“Oh, yeah?” He asks, his voice dropping to a husky register that sends heat pooling in my stomach.
“Can I see your cookbook collection?”
“My cookbooks?” He looks surprised, eyebrows raising, but not disappointed that my suggestion wasn’t of the sensual nature. There’s something endearing about his expression.
“I saw them in your office the other day. I peeked while I was waiting for you, but I’d like to know more about them. Especially which ones have inspired you the most.”
“Absolutely.” His whole face lights up. You’d think he’s a kid who has been asked to show off his favorite toy. The enthusiasm is infectious. Slipping his hand in mine—his fingers are rough from years of kneading, warm and sure—he leads me out of the kitchen and down the hallway to his office.
Dropping my hand reluctantly, he goes straight to the bookshelves that dominate one wall. He pulls down a book that I overlooked the last time. Probably because it’s not a cookbook, but a slim book about the history of bread. The spine is cracked, the corners soft with wear.
He hands it to me with the reverence someone might show for a family heirloom, and I open it up to find multiple pages about sourdough dog-eared. The margins are filled with his neathandwriting, notes about hydration ratios and fermentation times. “When did you get this?”
“I read it while I was living with my friend in New York. After Street Cucina closed.” His voice carries a weight of memory. “My dad and I had this thing when I was growing up where we would go to the second-hand bookstore and get old cookbooks. Saturday mornings, without fail. I started doing that again to cheer myself up, walking through the city to this tiny shop in Brooklyn, and I came across this. It’s what got me interested in sourdough.”
“It’s so old.” I flip to the beginning of the book and find that it was printed in the early eighties. The pages are yellowed, that particular vanilla scent of aged paper filling my nostrils.
“Practically falling apart,” he says with pride, like the wear is a badge of honor. His finger runs along the spines on the top shelf, touching each book gently, and he pulls down a bulky cookbook. This one is newer but equally loved. “My dad gave me this one and a few others when I moved here to open the bakery.”
I run my fingers over the cover, feeling the embossed title, and think about the picture of Noah and his dad—currently right over Noah’s shoulder. In the photo, they’re both covered in flour, grinning at the camera. “He must have been so proud.”
Noah’s smile flickers like a candle in a breeze. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, his shoulder pressing against a diploma from culinary school. “He worries that I can’t handle Rye Again.”
“What?” I scoff, genuine indignation rising in my chest. “You’re doing an amazing job with it.”
“Yeah, he’s just concerned that I have too much going on, with my YouTube channel and now the cookbook...” He shrugs, like that’s enough to make the matter go away, but I can see thetension in his shoulders. “He was really proud when I opened Street Cucina, though. Literally told me it was the proudest day of his life, and that’s from a man who usually won’t even admit he has feelings.”
Guilt stabs me right in the heart, sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t my fault that Street Cucina closed—I was just doing my job—but the more I get to know Noah, the more I feel awful that his pride and joy ended up crashing and burning.
“Have you tested out all these recipes?” I ask, eager to move the conversation along, to chase away the shadows gathering in his eyes.
“Every single one.” He sweeps his arm, gesturing at the bookshelves with obvious pride. There must be hundreds of books here.
I laugh, the sound warming the space between us. “I meant this one book.”
Noah grins, and it transforms his face completely. “Oh. Well, yes. The book too.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s clearly the kind of person who throws himself all in when he loves something. The evidence is all around us—in every carefully annotated page, every flour-dusted surface in his kitchen.
“Which recipe is your favorite?”
“Oh.” His eyes light up with an inner fire. “My classic sourdough recipe, of course.”
“Of course.” I hand him the book back so he can re-shelve it; I have the suspicion that the books are ordered in a specific way that only he can understand. He slides it into place with practiced ease. “I’m sure your dad is really proud of you opening Rye Again. Sometimes parents are too busy worrying about us to remember to tell us things like how proud they are.”
“Your parents must be proud of you. A fancy food reviewer. A million people only dream of having that job.”
“It’s okay.” I sweep my ponytail off my shoulder, feeling the weight of my hair shift. “I’d rather be editing full time. That way...”
I pause, catching myself right before I launch into an explanation of my Painful Bladder Syndrome. It’s not that I’m ashamed to have it, but mentioning it usually requires a long, follow-up conversation. One that’s not sexy at all. One that changes how people look at me.
I’m not ready to go there yet. Right now, I’m hanging out in this office with a hot guy I really like, surrounded by his passion made tangible in cookbook form. The last thing I want to talk about is my chronic illness.
