“I ran out to the deli and got some pre-made pizza dough. And then...”
Shit. I can’t look at her. Can’t see whatever expression is crossing her face. Yes, she played a role in ruining my career in New York, but I handed her the ammunition.
“And then I had that bombolini.” Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact.
“Yep.” I wave my hand dismissively, as if I can brush away three years of consequences. Here it comes—the scathing follow-up, the I-told-you-so. “After that came the bad health inspection. The temperature at the hand washing sink wasn’t warm enough—had no clue about that. Someone left an open bag of flour on the floor. The forks had been put into the carafes point up...”
“So they shut you down?” Something flickers across her face—sympathy maybe—but I don’t want it. Not from her.
“No. Just gave me a bad score. People heard about it, though. Combined with your review, it looked... bad. My investor pulled out, and that was that. There was no keeping it going.”
Her lashes—thick and black with that perfect swoop at the corners—flutter as she processes this. “I’m sorry, Noah.”
My name on her lips sends an unexpected jolt through my chest, pulse jumping like I’ve touched a live wire. I force myself to ignore it, to focus on the anger that’s safer, cleaner.
“So of course now people assume I’m using preservatives on the regular.” The words pour out faster now, a dam breaking. “That’s probably why half the customers are here—to try and catch me in the act. And on top of that, my agent just called me after coming back from vacation. Apparently, I have a new editor for my cookbook, who I know nothing about. I don’t even know if they’re any good, and I have to meet them in ten minutes and act like I have the energy for this right now.”
Her eyes go wide, ocean-blue darkening with surprise. “You’re writing a cookbook? About bread?”
“I will say—thank you for apologizing. My anger... some of it is misdirected. The dough had preservatives when you came. Of course it did. I should have just taken the bombolini off the menu that night, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”
The words keep tumbling out, and I can’t stop them. “Even closing the restaurant down, it doesn’t end it though. Every video I post has at least one comment with some jackass saying ‘but where’s the prop, bro?’ Like they assume I’m putting propionic acid into everything I make! And on Reddit there are whole forums about how I’m a bread traitor and Rye Again won’t save my image. And...”
The exhale tears out of me, heavy and defeated. I’m venting. To her. To Alexis Hullinger, the woman who wrote the review that started this whole downward spiral. My cheeks burn with the realization.
This isn’t a good look. Just another reason to get her out of here now, before I embarrass myself further.
“How about some bread?” I lead the way out of my office, down the short hallway. “We have one still in development. You can be the first to try it.”
“Noah—”
“If we need to reschedule the interview, we can.” Though I really hope she doesn’t take me up on that. She’s tasted the food, gotten more backstory than I ever meant to give. She can go now.She needs to go now.
The kitchen air hits cooler than my office, carrying the yeast-sweet smell of rising dough and the darker notes of coffee from the front. I grab several fresh loaves, still warm from the oven, shoving them into a paper bag with our logo stamped on the side. The test batch of pimento cheese and jalapeño sourdough sits on the cooling rack, golden crust crackling faintly. I break off a corner, let the heat and spice bloom across my tongue. Perfect.
“Anthony.” My voice carries across the kitchen to one of the assistant bakers. “Do we have any of the paprika-infused black garlic butter?”
“Noah.” Alexis’s voice calls from behind me, insistent.
I spin to face her, needing to cut this off before—before what? Before I say something else I’ll regret? Before she sees more of this mess I’ve become?
“Whatever you’re gonna say, it’s fine. What happened between us—it’s in the past. Thank you for coming.”
The lie tastes worse than day-old bread. This woman played a major role in my downfall, and I don’t care that her hair catches the light like spun gold or that her lips are painted the exactshade of ripe strawberries. I’ll be better off never seeing her again. Right now, I just really need her to leave.
“Here.” The bag crinkles as I push it into her arms, then turn to slice the pimento cheese and jalapeño bread. The knife moves in practiced strokes, and Anthony appears with the butter just as I need it. I slather it on thick, the deep garlic scent mixing with the bright hit of paprika, and hold it out to Alexis.
She takes it. Holds it. Doesn’t taste it.
In the food world, that’s basically a slap in the face.
“Don’t worry.” Bitterness creeps into my voice despite my best efforts. “There’s no propionic acid in it.”
Her lips purse, that little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
But before she can continue, Lawrence’s blond head appears in the kitchen doorway. “Hey boss, sorry to bother you, but why did the big order for the coffee shop get canceled? I noticed that the order was marked as ‘canceled’ in our system but I just got off the phone with the owner asking when it would be delivered.”
My confusion must show on my face because Lawrence actually cringes. “What are you talking about? I didn’t authorize that. It wasn’t delivered today?”
