I pull out the German cookbook, its spine cracked from use, pages yellowed with age.Brot und Gebäck. The copyright page says 1987. Does Noah read German? That would be... impressive. Unexpected. Though I realize I don’t actually know where he’s from. Our interview three years ago was all surface—his menu, his inspiration for Street Cucina, his plans forexpansion that never happened. Nothing about the man himself. Nothing about his family or where he grew up or how he learned to cook.
I slide the book back and let my fingers trail along the spines. Every single one is—either directly or tangentially—about bread. Cornbread. Pita bread. New Orleans bread. German bread. Books on the science of gluten development, the history of grain cultivation, the cultural significance of bread across civilizations. And sourdough. So much sourdough.
It’s almost obsessive, this collection. No, scratch almost—it is obsessive. But there’s something beautiful about that kind of singular focus, that dedication to mastering one thing completely.
My finger stops on a familiar spine. The burgundy and gold of Kitchen Lore Publishing—the same house that hired me to edit the sourdough bread cookbook. I pull it out carefully.Artisan Breads at Homeby James Whitmore. The pages are covered in flour fingerprints and bits of dried dough. Noah’s handwriting fills the margins—neat but hurried notes about fermentation times, hydration percentages, how to adapt for humid weather, shortcuts for home bakers without professional equipment. “Try 70% hydration for beginners” is written next to a ciabatta recipe. “Add 2 hrs bulk ferment in winter” is scrawled beside the sourdough section.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, heavy and purposeful. I shove the cookbook back into place and step away from the shelves, moving to the window like I’ve been admiring the view of downtown Portsmouth this whole time. My heart pounds stupidly fast.
But no one comes in. The footsteps fade toward the back of the bakery, probably just an employee heading to the storage room.
I move to the other end of the bookshelf, where a single framed photo sits between two massive bread encyclopedias. It’s slightly dusty, like it hasn’t been moved in months. Noah stands in front of Street Cucina, its red awning bright and optimistic behind him. Next to him is an older man with the same strong jaw, the same dark eyes, though his hair is silver at the temples. His father? Uncle? Whoever he is, he’s beaming at Noah with unmistakable pride, one hand on Noah’s shoulder in that way fathers have of claiming their sons’ victories.
Something twists in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
I shake my head hard enough to make my earrings swing. Noah’s restaurant didn’t fail because of me. I reported the truth. That’s what food critics do—we report what we experience. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.
But standing here in his office, surrounded by evidence of his obsession with bread, with proof of how hard he’s worked to rebuild... The YouTube channel he mentioned. The move across the country. This bakery that smells like heaven and has customers lining up. In the last half hour of Noah venting and my studying his office, it feels I’ve learned more about him than I would have if I read the brief the publishing house sent me.
He clearly loves what he does. And does it well.
I’m starting to see a different picture than the arrogant chef I remember from three years ago. The one who barely looked at me during our interview, who dismissed my questions about his suppliers with vague non-answers.
The door flies open so hard it bounces off the wall. Noah strides in, his jaw set in a hard line that could cut glass. The soft wonder from when he talked about sourdough is gone, replaced by something cold and final.
I turn toward him, my mouth already opening to ask about the customer complaint. “Hey?—”
“Out.”
The word lands like a slap. “What?”
He points at the door, his body radiating fury. His finger shakes slightly, whether from anger or something else, I can’t tell. “We’re done here. Time for you to get out.”
Chapter Four
Noah
“We just got started.” Alexis’s voice carries that same stubborn edge I remember from three years ago, when she sat across from me at Street Cucina, picking apart every answer I gave her.
“And now we’re done.” The words come out sharper than I intend as I rake my fingers through my hair. My hands won’t stop shaking—exhaustion from the four AM start, frustration from that customer, and something else I refuse to name all mixing into this trembling mess. One disaster after another this morning, and having Alexis here witnessing it all makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
“You know why that customer insists there are preservatives in my bread?” Then went so far to also asked all those rapid-fire questions like he was conducting his own inspection.How many employees work here? What are their schedules? Which suppliers do you use for your flour?As if he knew more about running a bakery than someone who’s been kneading dough since he could reach the counter.
Alexis’s mouth snaps shut. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.
But I need to say it anyway. Need her to understand what her words have done. “Your review. You said that I use preservatives.”
“I tasted preservatives.” Her hands spread wide, palms up, like she’s presenting evidence in court. “What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose until it throbs, turning away from those eyes that see too much. No. Of course she wasn’t supposed to lie. That’s not how reviews work. But assumptions—those are different. Those destroy careers.
“I know now that you didn’t use them.” Her voice softens, loses that defensive edge. “And I’m sorry.”
The apology hits me sideways, unexpected. My chest tightens because the truth is burning its way up my throat, and she wasn’t completely wrong. God, I hate that she wasn’t wrong.
“It was one night.” The words taste like failure. “One of the kitchen assistants messed up a recipe I’d just taught the team a week before. He didn’t account for the saltiness of the olives in the olive-studded bombolini dough. It was completely unusable. By the time I realized it, dinner service was starting. So I?—”
The memory makes my stomach churn. The panic, the desperation, the stupid, career-ending decision.
