We enter the shop, and the smell hits me immediately—yeast and butter and something indefinably warm. Noah comes around the counter, his movements fluid and practiced. He’s wearing an apron over a short-sleeve shirt, and I have to work to not stare at his biceps, the way they flex as he tosses the towel over his shoulder.
“Hey.” He wipes his hands on his apron, a nervous gesture that surprises me. His gaze floats to Devin then back to me, dark eyes unreadable.
“Noah, this is Devin,” I say, and my voice comes out unusually high, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
He nods at her, professional but warm. “Toasted raisin with honey butter, and coffee with almond milk, right?”
Her eyes widen, genuine surprise coloring her features. “Oh, wow. You’re good. I’ve only been in here maybe three times.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hint of pride in the gesture. “I remember faces.”
She primly clears her throat, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Alexis told me she was coming here to meet with you, and I figured I could get some emails done.” She pats her bag like it holds evidence. “I won’t bother you. I’ll just sit quietly at my own table.”
Noah’s smile transforms his face, warming the room in a way that should be illegal. The change is so sudden, so complete, thatI feel something twist in my chest. “I’ll have Lawrence bring you your usual.”
“Thanks,” she says, returning his smile with one of her own.
When Noah turns his back to grab something from behind the counter, Devin raises her eyebrows at me, a question in her eyes. I shoot her a thumbs up, trying to look more confident than I feel, signaling that I’m good. So far, Noah is being much friendlier than I expected. At least to her.
Devin finds a table in the corner, pulling out her laptop with practiced efficiency, while I linger by the windows, uncertain. I don’t know where Noah will want to sit, whether he’ll choose somewhere public or private for this conversation. His good mood with Devin is a balm to my earlier anxieties, but when he heads my way, something shifts in the air between us. I realize with a sinking feeling that the politeness, the warmth, was for Devin alone.
With each step he takes toward me, his eyebrows furrow further, creating lines I want to smooth away. It’s more like he’s walking to the guillotine than to a meeting. His shoulders tense, his jaw sets. I stand my ground and raise my chin, determined to show that I’m not intimidated, even as my heart rate picks up.
Too soon, he reaches me. We stand there, locked in a stare off, neither one of us willing to speak first. The air between us crackles with unspoken words. It’s infantile, this standoff, but I’m sucked into it, trying to be the better person while simultaneously shooting daggers his way. The contradiction doesn’t escape me.
“So.” He crosses his arms, the movement making his shirt stretch across his chest.
I clear my throat, buying time. “So.”
He gestures at a table near the window, not the most private spot but not the most public either. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“Sounds good.” I lead the way to the table, hyperaware of every movement, walking like I’m made out of wood, joints stiff and unnatural.
He takes his apron off before sitting, folding it with careful precision, and I gulp at the tight planes beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. How does he stay so fit? If I worked in a bakery, I would gain thirty pounds in no time from eating bread breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The thought of him working here, early mornings kneading dough, flour dusting his arms, makes my mouth go dry.
I remember seeing him back at his old restaurant in New York, visible through the kitchen pass. He was kneading dough then too, muscles straining from the effort and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was as if he were channeling all his frustration into the bread, putting every ounce of anger and disappointment into the rhythm of his hands.
Of course, I found him attractive then, and even more so now. But I’m a professional. I pride myself on that. And I also don’t give a damn if a man is a ten out of ten. It’s his actions that count. His character. The choices he makes.
Noah rakes his fingers through his hair, the gesture messing it up just enough to make him look disheveled, and sits back in his chair. The wood creaks slightly under his weight. He looks like a petulant teenager who’s been forced to come to class, all barely contained energy and resentment. “I wasn’t sure if you would show up.”
I freeze, my hands stilling where they’d been smoothing my skirt. What is that supposed to mean? “Why would I not show up?”
“Because of... this.” He gestures back and forth between the two of us, the movement encompassing everything unsaid.
“What do you mean ‘this’?” I know full well what he means—the history, the review, the way we ended things in New York—but I feel like giving back my own dose of petulance.
He narrows his eyes and inspects me, really looks at me for the first time since I walked in. “Why did you bring your friend?”
I balk at that, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “You know why. She likes it here. She has some work to do.”
“Really?” A liveliness flits across his face, something almost like amusement. He’s trying not to laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s not so that you can have backup?”
“Backup?”
He laces his hands on the table and leans forward, which does nothing for my goal of not staring at his muscles. The movement brings him closer, and I catch a hint of his scent—flour and something else, something warm and masculine. “You don’t have some secret gesture to send Devin so that she can pretend to get a phone call about an emergency and then you can leave?”
My face warms. The assumption is so specific, so detailed. Is he serious?
