Page 33 of We Can Do
It’s complicated, though—too complicated to explain convincingly to someone else, especially my dad. Alexis being my editor is another component that he would probably have opinions about. He’d worry I’m mixing business with pleasure, that I’m setting myself up for another fall.
So I settle for keeping the news to myself, at least for now.
“That’s great, Dad. I’m really glad to hear it. You deserve to have some companionship.”
“We’re going to dinner this Friday.” He says it casual, like it’s no big deal, but I can hear the barely contained excitement underneath. “That Italian place on Charles Street. It’s my turn to check out. Talk to you later, bud. And think about what I said, okay? You can always put the cookbook off until later, when the bakery is more stable. When you have more time to breathe.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, though of course I won’t be changing my mind. The cookbook is happening. “Thanks for calling, Dad. Enjoy the stuffed peppers.”
I hang up and set the phone on the coffee table, my mind spinning like a mixer on high speed. Nothing he said tonight was new—it’s the same concern he’s been expressing for months—but the words hit harder than usual. Maybe because I’m tired. Maybe because I know he’s not entirely wrong.
As stressful as my life is, it’s looking up. And that’s thanks to all the different components, not in spite of them. The bakery, the YouTube channel, the cookbook—they’re all interconnected, each one feeding into the others.
The last thing I’m quitting is the cookbook. Especially now that I know how important it is to Alexis’s career too. She needs this to go well to get that full-time position. With her and the project so intertwined, quitting the cookbook would mean stomping on her dreams. It would mean letting her down.
It would mean giving her up.
Which is definitely not happening.
Chapter Thirteen
Noah
“Rosemary is out,” I announce, sticking my head through the kitchen’s swinging doors. The words carry over the grinding of coffee beans, the hissing of French presses and the morning chatter of customers.
Lawrence glances up from the register, gives me a quick thumbs up, and taps the rosemary sourdough button on the point-of-sale screen, marking it unavailable. The morning rush is finally winding down—that sweet spot between the early coffee-and-bread crowd and the lunch folks who’ll trickle in later. The display case that was packed at seven this morning sits nearly empty now, just a few lonely loaves scattered across the shelves. That hollow, picked-clean look fills me with satisfaction. Every empty shelf means someone’s taking my bread home, means the bakery’s working.
I step behind the counter, wiping flour dust from my hands onto my apron—the black one with “Rye Again” embroidered across the chest. The dining room spreads out before me, morning light streaming through the tall windows and catching the dust motes floating in the air. Tables are still occupiedwith late-morning customers nursing their French presses, but I scan the room anyway, searching for familiar blonde hair, those bright eyes that have been haunting me since yesterday.
She won’t be here. I know she won’t, but I can’t stop myself from looking for her. Our next lesson isn’t until this afternoon. But my chest tightens with hope anyway, some ridiculous part of me thinking she might have stopped by just because.
We texted last night—nothing serious, just silly things really. But her words on my phone screen weren’t enough. All night, I felt the phantom pressure of her lips against mine, the way she’d melted into me in the kitchen yesterday when flour dusted both our faces. The memory makes my pulse quicken even now, standing here in the middle of my bustling bakery.
This afternoon can’t come fast enough. Maybe after our lesson, I’ll suggest dinner. Nothing fancy—we could grab something casual, or better yet, I could cook for her at my place. The apartment above the bakery isn’t much, but the kitchen works. I haven’t cooked a real meal there since moving in six months ago, but for Alexis...
“Good morning?” I ask Lawrence, trying to shake off thoughts of her.
“Check it out yourself.” He nods at the point-of-sale screen, pride evident in his voice.
I flip the device around and pull up the morning’s sales report. The number staring back at me makes my heart skip—we’ve already beaten last week’s best day, and it’s not even noon. Portsmouth is embracing sourdough bread like I’d hoped but hadn’t dared expect. After everything that happened in New York, this feels like vindication.
“Make sure you use the sanitizer on the tables,” Lawrence calls out to one of the front-of-house staff, a kid named Marcus who started last week. “Not just the regular cleaner. The health inspector is coming any day now.”
The words hit me like ice water. My stomach plummets straight through the floor.
“Wait. What?” The words come out strangled. “The health inspector is due?”
“Yep.” Lawrence pulls out his phone, scrolling to his calendar app. He turns the screen toward me, pointing at this week. “Could be today, could be next week. They gave us a window.”
The good mood evaporates instantly. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and I actually have to grip the counter to steady myself. My eyes dart around the bakery, suddenly seeing every potential violation, every tiny thing that could go wrong. I spot a few crumbs near the baseboard. Is that dust on the light fixture? When did we last clean behind the refrigerator?
“You okay?” Lawrence’s voice sounds distant.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah.” The lie tastes bitter. I’m not okay. I’m freaking the hell out right now. Spiraling into full panic mode.
Without another word, I grab a clean towel from the stack and launch into action. The health inspector could walk through that door any second. Everything needs to be perfect.
I start with the obvious—checking that every container of common allergens has proper labeling. Flour, eggs, dairy, nuts. The labels need to be clear, dated, visible. Then the cleaning schedule posted on the wall. My hands shake as I verify every employee’s initials, making sure no one missed their assigned tasks. The hand-washing station—soap full? Paper towels stocked? Water temperature correct?
