After years of freelancing, I’m craving what some would call a regular, “boring” job. The kind that hopefully comes with some benefits.
“What a line, hm?” She doesn’t acknowledge my question. “Don’t worry. I talked to the manager, and I’ve already got you a table. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Thank you so much.” The words tumble out, genuine gratitude mixed with embarrassment that I hadn’t thought toarrive earlier, hadn’t anticipated the crowds at the hot new bakery.
Elaine leads me past the line, and I feel the weight of annoyed stares following us. The door opens to a wave of warmth and the most incredible smells escape—yeast, butter, herbs, and fruity coffee beans. The space is smaller than I expected, maybe fifteen tables crammed into what used to be a vintage clothing store. Exposed brick walls, industrial pendant lights, a long front counter displaying golden-brown loaves behind glass, a variety of bread stands on one section of counter space, and a massive coffee setup on another.
She guides me to a corner table, partially hidden behind a large fiddle-leaf fig. Perfect for observing without being observed. A man in an apron appears almost immediately with a thick slice of signature sourdough and a steaming French press.
“Thank you.” I’m genuinely surprised by the service. Usually, I’m fighting for counter space, trying to balance plates while scribbling notes.
“Are you staying?” I ask Elaine, though I already know the answer.
“No. I just came to make sure you got in.”
The words sting a little. Like I’m a child who needs supervision. I haven’t made any big slip ups in the two years I’ve been working part-time for the paper, but that’s Elaine—she treats all her writers this way, I remind myself. It’s not personal.
“Send it to me as soon as it’s done.” She’s already moving toward the door, navigating tables with practiced efficiency.
My stomach growls as soon as she’s gone, and the beginning of a caffeine headache pulses behind my eyes. But before I eat, I pull out my notepad and pen. The ritual grounds me. Food reviewing isn’t just about taste—it’s the whole experience. The ambience, the scents, the moment before you take the first biteand you’re holding your breath, caught between expectation and curiosity.
I jot down my observations:Packed at 8:30 am on a Tuesday. Mixed crowd of customers—young professionals grabbing coffee before work, retirees meeting with friends, even a few students on their way to school. Simple menu on chalkboard. Sourdough varieties: classic, rye, whole wheat, daily special (rosemary today).
I press the plunger on the French press slowly, watching the grounds settle. Pour just a few ounces into the white ceramic cup—enough to taste, not enough to rush. The coffee is bright, almost citrusy. Ethiopian, maybe. Single origin for sure.
Next is the bread. On visual inspection, the crust is deeply caramelized, with those irregular holes that mark true artisan sourdough. I cut it in half, noting how the knife crunches through the exterior to reveal an open, airy crumb structure inside. The butter beside it is different—flecked with black pepper and something floral. I taste it alone first. Honeysuckle. Unexpected and brilliant.
I spread the butter carefully, making sure to get an even layer, then lift the bread to my mouth. The first bite stops me cold.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
The crust shatters between my teeth, giving way to a chewy interior that’s tangy and complex. The butter melts instantly, the pepper providing little sparks of heat while the honeysuckle adds an almost ethereal sweetness. This isn’t just good bread. This is transcendent.
I want to know everything. Who is this baker? Where did they train? How did they develop this recipe? My mind races with questions for the interview, and I’m suddenly grateful I’ll have time to talk to the owner of Rye Again before my cookbook meeting.
If only I’d had time to prepare properly. Last night feels like a blur now—the newspaper meeting that ran until seven, the team dinner that stretched on into the night where everyone wanted to stay for drinks. I’d felt the familiar ache starting on the drive home to Pine Island, that deep, burning sensation that signals an interstitial cystitis flare.
By the time I’d gotten home, I could barely walk. Hours of alternating ice packs and heating pads on my lower abdomen, the CBD cream that sometimes helps but never enough, lying in bed trying to find a position that didn’t make me want to cry. The pain had consumed everything, made it impossible to do anything but survive until it passed.
Unfortunately, thanks to all that fun, I didn’t have any time to prepare for today. This morning the worst of it has faded to a dull ache, manageable but still there. I push the thought away. I have work to do.
“Can I get you anything else?”
I look up to find the manager—buzzed blond hair, friendly smile, the one Elaine talked about.
“I’ll want to try some of the other sourdoughs.” I dab at my mouth with the napkin, hoping I don’t have crumbs on my face. “Right now I really want to talk to the owner, though.”
“You’re in luck. Here he comes.” He nods toward the kitchen.
I turn in my chair, already composing my opening questions, and my smile freezes halfway to my lips.
No. No, no, no.
The man walking toward my table is tall, muscular, with dark hair that’s slightly too long and eyes the color of dark chocolate. I know that face. I know that walk. I know exactly who the man is walking towards me right now.
“Damn,” I whisper.
I watch the exact moment recognition hits him. He’s a few feet from my table when his eyes lock onto mine and his entirebody goes rigid. The friendly expression drains from his face like water from a broken glass. We stare at each other across the small space, and I want to look away but I can’t. It’s like being caught in headlights—paralyzed, waiting for impact.
