Page 35 of We Can Do
His expression shifts to amused disbelief, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “You’re... teaching her... to... bake?” He draws out each word like he’s trying to process them. “What happened to?—”
“I know, I know.” I wave off whatever he’s about to say, not wanting to revisit my previous opinions about food critics and reviewers. “I was harsh on her. She was just doing her job with that review of Street Cucina.”
“You said that all food reviewers are failed cooks masquerading as intellectuals.” His voice carries no judgment, just mild amazement at my reversal. “And that?—”
“Yeah, I know what I said.” I hoist myself up to sit on the counter, the cool steel pressing through my jeans. “I can be an asshole sometimes, you know?”
He snorts into his beer. “Damn. She’s got you good.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Actually, she asked me to teach her some of my recipes that are in the cookbook. It’s so that she can better understand the depth of the project.”
He nods slowly, processing this. “That makes sense. So you’re saying there’s nothing personal to it?”
“Well...” I can’t fight the grin spreading across my face.
“There it is.” He pokes me with his elbow, nearly making me spill my beer. “Spill.”
I shrug, torn between wanting to tell him everything but also not wanting to do Alexis a disservice by sharing something personal between us. “She’s great,” I finally say, knowing it’s completely inadequate.
“She doesn’t have the seductiveness of day-old sourdough bread?” He wiggles his eyebrows, throwing my own stupid words back at me.
“Not in the least,” I laugh, shaking my head at my own previous ridiculousness. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“That’s good, man. I’m happy for you.” But even as he says it, his smile dims slightly, something shifting in his expression.
“What?”
“Uh...” He stares down into his beer bottle like it might hold answers.
“Come on—what?”
“It’s just...” He scratches the back of his head, a nervous gesture I’ve learned means he’s about to say something I won’t like. “I know how important your career is to you. It’s number one, am I right?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I hesitate, the automatic “yes” catching in my throat.
Because yes, it’s number one. It has to be. It’s been number one by necessity and choice for so long I don’t remember what it feels like to prioritize anything else. My years in New York killed every relationship I tried to maintain—college friends who stopped calling when I could never make plans, fellow cooks who drifted away when I couldn’t grab drinks after shifts.
And dating? That was its own special nightmare. Women who wanted the time I couldn’t give, who needed attention I was too exhausted to provide. Or worse, the ones who just wanted to be seen with an “up and coming star” baker, who cared more about my potential fame than who I actually was. They’d show up for the restaurant openings and food festivals but disappear when I needed to work sixteen-hour days.
“It’s number one,” I finally confirm, but the words taste sour, like milk just starting to turn.
“I’m happy for you, Noah.” Lawrence looks me straight in the eye, and the seriousness there makes it impossible to look away. “Just be careful. You’re mixing work with pleasure here, and things can get messy. I know how much you want this book to be a success. Blurring the lines with Alexis... it might complicate the process.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, that Alexis and I can keep things separate and professional. But the words die before they form because he’s right.
There’s a reason companies have policies against employees dating. When personal relationships fall apart, they take professional ones with them. I’ve seen it happen—restaurants torn apart by divorcing business partners, bakeries ruined by romantic drama.
And yet.
And yet the thought of ending things with Alexis before they’ve really begun makes my chest ache. I haven’t felt this kind of lightness in years, this giddy anticipation that makes me check my phone constantly for her texts. If I walked away now, I’d regret it forever.
So there’s only one option.
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, taking another swig of beer.
Very, very careful—whatever the hell that means.
Chapter Fourteen
