Several times within the last couple of weeks, I’ve felt like I was being watched. At my co-working space in Portsmouth—that prickle on the back of my neck. Walking through the grocery store parking lot. Even going into Knit Happens last week. Am I just super stressed and on edge? Am I losing my mind?
Maybe, but better to be safe than sorry. So from here on out, I’ll make sure to watch my back and stay on guard. And maybe get some pepper spray for my keychain too.
Chapter Six
Noah
The office door flies open with enough force to rattle the frame and send my pencil rolling across the desk. Lawrence stands there, phone clutched in his hand, wearing that particular expression that makes my stomach drop before he even opens his mouth—half grimace, half anticipation, like he’s about to deliver news he knows I won’t want to hear but can’t wait to see my reaction.
“You’ll want to see this.”
I set down my coffee—first cup of the day, still scalding enough to burn my tongue if I’m not careful—and push aside the list I’ve been working on since five-thirty this morning. Loose brick out front that catches everyone’s toe. Squeaky back door that announces every delivery like a horror movie sound effect. The canceled flour order from Harvest Mills that makes zero sense since we’ve never missed a payment and I triple-checked our account yesterday. I’ve never had so many issues with suppliers before in my long career in the food industry.
“No good conversation ever started with those words.”
“Sorry.” He winces, but there’s something dancing in his eyes that says he’s not sorry at all. More like... entertained? Like he’s watching a show he knows is about to get interesting. “It’s not that bad.”
“Well, now I don’t believe you.”
He crosses the small office in two strides—dodging the filing cabinet that juts out too far and the stack of flour samples I’ve been meaning to organize—and crouches next to my desk. All six foot one of him folds down like a collapsible ladder, knees popping, until he’s at eye level. He angles his phone screen toward me, and the Portsmouth Daily News website loads with painful slowness. Then there it is, in bold black letters designed to grab attention:“Local Bakeries Brace for Flour Shortage: Supply Chain Issues Hit Small Businesses Hard.”
My palm connects with my face before I can stop myself. The slap echoes in the cramped space, probably loud enough for the kitchen staff to hear through the thin walls. “Seriously?”
“This is a small area.” Lawrence scrolls through the article with his index finger, the motion faster than my caffeine-deprived brain can track. “I guess they heard about us having to get flour from three different supermarkets.”
The memory of yesterday morning floods back in vivid, frustrating detail—discovering bags of self-rising flour where fifty pounds of all-purpose should have been, the storeroom mysteriously empty of the backup supplies I know I ordered because I have the receipts right here in this drawer, an hour on the phone with a supplier who insisted they’d delivered the right product while I stood there holding a bag clearly labeled “self-rising.” By the time I sent Charles out with the van, we’d cleaned out every supermarket on Pine Island and two in Portsmouth, probably alarming every home baker in a ten-mile radius. Butthere’s no shortage. Just our spectacularly bad luck and what’s starting to feel like more than coincidence.
“Is there anything in there about preservatives?”
The question tastes bitter on my tongue, like burnt coffee grounds. Always the same accusation, following me like a shadow since New York, lurking in comment sections and whispered conversations I catch the tail end of.
Lawrence’s eyes dart across the screen, speed-reading. “Uh, no.”
“Well, thank God for little blessings, I guess. Who wrote it?” The words come out steady, but I’m holding my breath, fingers drumming against my thigh.
“Courtney something. Courtney Blackwood.”
Relief and disappointment war in my chest, creating an uncomfortable tightness. If Alexis had written it, at least I’d have somewhere to direct this frustration that’s been building all week like steam in a pressure cooker. Then again, at thirty-six, after everything that’s happened, I’m probably one snarky article away from a heart attack. My doctor already lectures me about stress levels every time I go in for a checkup.
“Maybe what they say about bad press is true.” Lawrence straightens, his knees popping again like bubble wrap. “There’s no such thing?”
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. The sharp click echoes. “Not in my experience.”
The sympathy that floods his eyes makes me look away, focusing instead on the water stain on the ceiling I keep meaning to investigate.
At least some people stand by my side.
Lawrence knows the whole story—Street Cucina, the review that started the avalanche, the spectacular collapse of everything I’d built in New York. He was the first person I interviewed for the manager position, and something about the way he didn’tdance around the subject, just acknowledged it and moved on, told me he was the right choice. He’d googled me beforehand, knew what he was getting into, and wanted the job anyway.
And my dad. He’s never believed the shit people have written about me online. Sure, he has his opinions about Rye Again, about how I might be putting too many eggs in one basket, but he’s got my back nevertheless.
“When’s your first interview for the cashier position?” I push my chair back from the desk and stand. Time to get my brain focused on today and away from the problems weighing me down.
He checks his phone, thumb swiping to his calendar app. “First person should be here any minute. Are you available to run the cash register for a bit? Amanda’s car broke down and she’s waiting to get a ride here.”
“No problem.” I grab my apron from the hook by the door, glad for the excuse to get out of this office that sometimes feels more like a cell, away from my laptop and its endless stream of problems, away from spreadsheets that never quite add up the way I need them to.
The front of house wraps around me like a familiar blanket, warm and comforting despite the chaos that always simmers just beneath the surface. Morning light streams through the tall windows, turning the wooden tables golden and making the hanging plants—spider plants and pothos that Sarah insists improve the air quality—glow like they’re lit from within. Only a handful of customers remain from the morning rush, nursing their coffee and sourdough at scattered tables. Mrs. Chen sits in her usual corner, reading a paperback and nibbling on our signature rosemary olive loaf. By the window, two college students type furiously on their laptops, empty plates pushed aside.
