Page 3 of We Can Do
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” His nostrils flare, hands clenching at his sides.
“Noah.” I start to stand, though I have no idea what I’m going to say. My mind is completely blank.
“Save it.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen with enough force that they keep moving long after he’s gone.
The manager’s eyebrows have climbed nearly to his hairline. “Whoa. Did you two date or something?”
“Worse.” I take a shaky breath, already grabbing my bag. “I left him a bad review.”
I stand and head for the swinging doors, my heart hammering against my ribs. This can’t be happening. Of all the bakeries in all of New Hampshire, Noah Reynolds owns this one? And the cookbook author is meeting me here. Great.
I push through the swinging doors, following Noah into the kitchen.
Chapter Two
Noah Reynolds
My vision tunnels as I burst through the kitchen doors. The stainless steel counters blur past me, the familiar smell of yeast and flour doing nothing to calm the storm in my chest. I need distance. Need to get as far from Alexis Hullinger as humanly possible before I do something stupid—like tell her exactly what her review cost me. Or worse, let myself remember how drawn to her I was with those ocean-blue eyes and full lips when she first walked into Street Cucina three years ago, before everything went to hell.
The morning sounds of the kitchen—the rhythmic thud of dough being worked, the hiss of steam from the ovens—all fade to white noise. My hands are shaking. Actually shaking, like I’m some rookie on his first day instead of someone who’s been working kitchens for fifteen years.
“You okay, boss?” Charles glances up from the dough he’s kneading, flour dusting his dark forearms. There’s concern in his voice, the kind that tells me I must look as wrecked as I feel.
Fuck.Pull it together, Noah.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like I’ve been eating sawdust. I force myself to swallow, to act normal, to pretend the woman who destroyed everything I built isn’t sitting in twenty feet away. “Yeah. Fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced but turns back to his work, his hands pressing and folding the dough with practiced ease. Smart kid. He knows when to leave well enough alone. The rest of the kitchen staff keep their heads down too, but I can feel their curiosity like static in the air.
This is quite the Monday morning kick in the teeth. Customers are lined up out the door—probably half of them here to see if the bread’s as terrible as Alexis made my Italian food sound. Vultures circling, waiting to pick apart the carcass of my reputation. The rosemary starter stopped leavening overnight for no reason I can figure out, just sitting there like a science experiment gone wrong. Still can’t source decent gluten-free oats anywhere in New Hampshire, and I’ve called every supplier from here to Boston. And twenty minutes ago, one of the industrial mixers decided to give up the ghost with a grinding metal-on-metal screech that probably woke the dead and definitely scared away three customers.
So naturally, the woman who destroyed my reputation would be sitting in my dining room, ready to do it all over again. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, little bursts of light that are somehow less painful than reality. Deep breath. The air tastes like butter and cinnamon from the morning’s first batch. Another breath. My heart’s still hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, but I can think past the roar in my ears now.
I could throw her out. Would be within my rights—this is my place, my kitchen, my dream she’s walking into uninvited. But that would just give her more ammunition. I can alreadysee the headline: “Bitter Baker Can’t Take the Heat.” Or worse: “Former Street Cucina Owner Still Can’t Handle Criticism.” No. This is actually an opportunity, if I play it right. Show her—show everyone—that I’m not the hack she painted me as. That I’m a damn good baker. That Street Cucina was a fluke, not a pattern. That I actually know what I’m doing with dough and flour and heat.
I just have to make sure everything’s perfect. Every bite she takes, every sip of coffee, every moment she’s here needs to be flawless.
I turn to head back out front, squaring my shoulders, and slam straight into something soft and warm. Someone. Alexis stumbles backward, her arms windmilling like she’s trying to take flight. A large mixer is behind her—still full of cinnamon raisin dough—and she’s heading straight for it. I can already see the disaster: her landing back-first in twenty pounds of sticky dough, the health code violations, the inevitable lawsuit.
My hands shoot out on instinct, catching her upper arms. The fabric of her blouse is silk or something like it, smooth under my fingers. I haul her upright, steadying her against me for half a second—close enough to smell her shampoo, something tropical and completely out of place in my flour-dusted world—before letting go like she’s made of hot coals.
She pushes her dark-blonde hair out of her face, cheeks flushed pink. A strand sticks to her lipstick, and she brushes it away. “Uh...th—thanks. That’s the second time I almost ate pavement today.” A nervous laugh escapes her, the sound too bright for the tension crackling between us. “What a morning, right?”
My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. “That’s one way to put it.”
We stand there, three feet apart in my kitchen, just staring. Her eyes are even bluer than I remembered—tropical water blue,speckled with green. Eyes I want to drown in. She’s drinking me in like she’s cataloging every detail for her review, and it feels like being stripped naked in front of a firing squad. Every flaw exposed, every weakness noted. This is a contest I’m determined to win, a staring match with my entire future on the line.
I can hear Charles behind me, still working the dough. The ovens tick as they heat. Someone drops a pan in the dish pit with a clatter that makes us both flinch, but neither of us looks away.
Then I remember: I need her. Much as it burns to admit it, much as it makes me want to put my fist through the wall, I need Alexis Hullinger’s approval.
The line outside doesn’t mean anything if she writes another hatchet job. People are sheep, always ready to join the latest outrage mob, ready to pile on whoever’s been designated today’s villain. One bad review and tomorrow’s line disappears. My suppliers start getting nervous. The bank starts making calls. Which means I need this woman—this destroyer of dreams—to like my sourdough.
The thought makes me want to punch something. Preferably something that would break.
“All right.” The sigh escapes before I can stop it, all my exhaustion and frustration leaking out in that one breath. “Can I get you coffee?”
