Page 65 of We Can Do
Alexis breaks our kiss, her eyes wide with alarm. “What was that?”
I frown, my mind racing through possibilities—equipment falling, someone breaking in, maybe Lawrence forgot to secure something. “I’m not sure, but I’m going to check it out.”
“I’m coming with you,” she says in that tone that brooks no argument.
“Okay, but stay close.”
We hurry down the outside stairs, our footsteps clanging on the metal. The night air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the apartment. I can see lights from the street, but something seems wrong—there’s too much light coming from the bakery’s front windows.
When we round the corner to the front entrance, my stomach drops.
The large front window—the one that says “Rye Again” in that vintage font I spent weeks choosing—has been completely destroyed. A giant rock, maybe the size of a basketball, sits among the glittering shards covering the dining room floor. Glass fragments catch the streetlight like scattered diamonds, spread across tables and chairs, crunching under our feet as we approach.
Alexis gasps beside me, her hand flying to her mouth. I pull out my phone to call the police. She looks at me with tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Noah, this has to be all my fault.” She stares at the mess eyes wide, concern written across her face.
“Why do you say that?” I pause, phone halfway to my ear.
“Between my review of Street Cucina and you getting hassled about preservatives, then the strange notes and the box of negative reviews that showed up at my door. You’re being targeted because of me.” She wraps her arms around her waist, like she’s trying to hold herself together.
I pull her into my arms, feeling her shake against me. “Alexis, honey, this is no one’s fault except for the person that’s doing these things. Don’t blame yourself.”
She sniffles against my shirt, her voice muffled. “I’ll try but I just feel so responsible.”
I give her one more squeeze before releasing her to dial the police. The dispatcher’s voice is calm and professional as I explain what happened. They promise to send officers right away but remind me not to enter the building until it’s been cleared by the police.
I end the call and look at the destruction again. Thousands of dollars in damage, hours of cleanup, and who knows what this will do to business tomorrow. But right now, all I care about is the woman beside me.
We stand on the sidewalk, the broken glass glittering in the storefront, waiting for the police. I pull Alexis close again and kiss her softly, tasting the salt of her tears. “Thank you for being here tonight,” I whisper against her lips.
She tilts her head back to look at me, her eyes searching mine in the glow of the streetlights. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Neither would I.”
Finally. Something we’re in perfect agreement on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alexis
“Well?” Noah takes a seat across from me, coffee in hand, the ceramic mug releasing a tendril of steam that curls between us.
Rye Again has just closed for the day, the last employee—a young woman with flour still dusting her apron—walking out the door ten minutes earlier. The bakery feels different in this quiet aftermath, like a theater after the audience has left. Crumbs scatter across the display case where rows of sourdough once sat, and the lingering warmth from the ovens wraps around us like a blanket.
Which means that, for the two of us, our office day is just getting started.
We still haven’t heard anything from the police about the smashed window from last week. They promised they’d be looking for the culprit, leaving messages about following up on leads, but nothing concrete has materialized. In the meantime, the new glass gleams in the afternoon light, and Rye Again is functioning as usual—or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves.
I grin up at him from behind the manuscript pages. “I’m only a few pages in.”
“Sorry, I?—”
“But...” I keep smiling at him from across one of Rye Again’s wooden tables, the same one where we had our first real conversation weeks ago. “It’s great.”
“Yeah?” He lights up like a kid in a candy shop, his whole body leaning forward, elbows on the table.
Even though we’ve continued to bake together—our hands covered in flour, laughing over failed attempts at shaping loaves—the official baking lessons are done with. We’ve moved on to editing. After doing a thorough read of the whole book, making notes in the margins until my hand cramped, I’ve gone back to the beginning to work on it chapter by chapter. Currently, I’m working on the section about the best equipment and flours to use, trying to balance technical accuracy with accessibility.
