Chapter One
Alexis Hullinger
“Come on.” I punch the check button on the parking machine for the fifth time, watching the screen flicker with the same error message. “Please work.”
The machine finally beeps, and the screen changes to show my payment has been processed. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Eight fifteen in the morning, and my day already feels like it’s spiraling. Between the cookbook editing meeting and the bakery review, I have enough on my plate without fighting with Portsmouth’s ancient parking equipment.
I hoist my tote bag higher on my shoulder and hurry out of the garage. The morning air carries the salty tang from the harbor mixed with something sweeter—probably from one of the nearby eateries. My interview with the town’s newest baker starts in fifteen minutes. No, thirteen now. That’s also the amount of time I have left to learn about the author whose cookbook I’ll be editing.
I still can’t believe it.Editing. For one of thebiggestpublishing houses in the country.
As a standalone job, it’s good— but the real prize is the possibility of a full-time position with the company. When the editor-in-chief at Kitchen Lore Publishing contacted me about the freelance gig, she let me know that I’m at the top of their list for hiring this summer.
Provided I do a good enough job on this cookbook.No pressurethere!
Luckily, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s multitasking. Which is why I had scheduled the meeting with the cookbook author at the bakery where I’m writing a review. I’ll get the info I need for myPortsmouth Daily Newsarticle, then—since the cookbook is about sourdough—I’ll meet with the cookbook author in the same spot at ten.
The sidewalk is already crowded with the morning rush—business people with their coffees, joggers weaving through pedestrians, a few early tourists snapping photos of the historic brick buildings. I dodge around a woman with a stroller and pull out my phone.
I need to at least glance at the document my editor sent last night that briefs me on the new baker. I know nothing about him, which means I won’t even know how to start the interview and will end up looking both unprofessional and ridiculous unless I do a little research first.
As I round the next corner, I enter my unlock code and open my email app when I slam into a hard shoulder.
“Oh!” My phone launches from my hand, and I hear the crack before I see it hit the pavement. The sound makes my stomach drop.
“You okay lady?”
I look up at the man I’ve run into—tall, brown hair, something familiar about his face though I can’t place it. Portsmouth isn’t that big; I’ve probably seen him at the coffee shop or farmer’s market.
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Heat floods my face. I should have been watching where I was going. “I wasn’t paying attention?—”
“Here you go.” He scoops up my phone and practically shoves it at me, his tone clipped. “Be careful. You don’t want to walk into traffic.”
Before I can thank him or apologize again, he’s already walking away, disappearing into the stream of pedestrians. I stare after him for a moment, then look down at my phone. A spider web of cracks runs across the screen, and when I try to tap, half of it doesn’t respond.
“Great.” I tap harder, trying different angles, but the document about the cookbook author won’t open. The screen is too damaged. I don’t even know their name, what they look like, what kind of experience they have with sourdough. I’ll have to wing the entire meeting.
My stomach clenches. Winging it has never been my strong suit. I like preparation, research, knowing exactly what I’m walking into. But there’s no time to find a computer or call the publisher. I’ll have to rely on my interviewing skills and hope the author doesn’t realize I’m completely unprepared.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the anxiety creeping up my spine. The familiar intersection comes into view—Market Street crossing with Harbor Avenue, the old maritime museum on one corner. Rye Again should be just around the next turn. I’ve been meaning to check out the new bakery since it opened last week, and now I’m getting paid to do it. At least that part of my morning should go smoothly.
I round the final corner and stop dead in my tracks.
The line stretches out the bakery’s door, down the sidewalk, and around the side of the building. People are chatting, checking their phones, shifting their weight as the queue inches forward at a glacial pace.
My chest tightens. There’s no way I’ll get inside, order, try the sourdough, and take proper notes for my review before my ten o’clock meeting with the cookbook author.
Shit. I bite my bottom lip. Could this day possibly get any worse?
“Alexis!” a familiar voice calls.
I glance over to see Elaine waving from near the front of the line. My boss—well, part-time boss—stands with her arms crossed, looking impatient even from twenty feet away. Relief washes over me.
I weave through the crowd toward her, ignoring the glares from people who probably think I’m cutting in line.
“Came to check in on me?” I keep my tone light, though part of me knows that’s exactly what she’s doing. Elaine is the food editor at the Portsmouth Daily News and she’s the one who sends me out on all the projects I write for them. She also has a reputation for micromanaging and though it irritates me sometimes, I can’t help but admire her dedication. You can always count on things getting done properly when she’s in charge.
As nice as it is working for her part-time, though, I’m tired of running around on freelance assignments. I’m not even technically an employee at the paper; I’m a contractor they bring on per job.
