I leaned in and kissed her softly. I had no presumptions about how far this would go. It was completely up to her. She responded, pulling me against her and tracing my lips with her tongue.
We kissed for a long time, her arms wrapped around me and a leg hitched over mine. We took it slowly, the way we hadn’t in the restaurant, and it felt just right.
That is, until she pushed me away. I sat up and saw the regret on her face.
“Ugh, I just . . .” She put her hands over her eyes. I waited but she sat frozen. So I gently removed her hands and leaned a little closer so she was looking at me directly.
“Hey. Talk to me.” My voice was calm. I didn’t want to push her, but I needed her to tell me what she wanted.
“Here’s the thing. I want to kiss you . . . I mean, I really, really do, but . . . you should understand that I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, raising up to her elbows so our faces were closer.
“You seemed pretty skilled earlier.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean my brain doesn’t know what I’m doing.”
I laughed. “Oh. Okay. That’s perfectly clear.”
She ran her hand over my chest, top to bottom, then she lifted the hem of my shirt and ran her nails appreciatively over my abs. I’d never been so grateful for the gym workouts I’d been forcing on myself since college as when I heard a quiet sigh escape her lips.
“I feel bad making you my rebound guy. You don’t deserve that, but I’m just getting out of a relationship. I mean, it hasn’t even been a day since my romantic crash and burn was plastered on social media and I’ve been single for like three hours, though that relationship was definitively over months ago,” she said.
I liked the sound of ‘definitively,’ but I needed to focus on the rest of what she was saying. She was right. She hadn’t even had a chance to sleep alone in her own bed yet, so I could hardly assume she was ready to sleep in mine. Or even on this well-placed couch.
“I’m sorry.” She scooted farther away.
“Don’t be,” I said. “Really. I don’t feel bad, so neither should you. I’m good with being the rebound guy. I’m not trying to swoop in and start something up with you right on the heels of your breakup—”
She held her fingers to my lips, which made me want to suck on them even though I doubted that was her intention. “Thank you. I can’t start something up with you or anyone. I need to figure out my life for a minute. Or a month.”
“Right. Of course. We’re friends. And as your friend, I’m here for you, whether that means we sit and talk about bread or we make out all night. Whatever it takes to help you get over your ex.” I quirked an eyebrow.
Her eyes twinkled. “You are magnanimous.”
“As a rebound guy should be.” As I said it, though, I distinctly disliked the idea and that should have been an immediate sign to get the hell out of there.
I had no business thinking of myself as anything more than her rebound guy.
So I nodded and hoisted myself off the couch. “It’s late. You’ve had a long day, and you should get some rest. I’m gonna walk you to your car, okay?”
“It’s probably a good idea.” She looked like she wanted me to argue her out of it, but I wasn’t going there. It wasn’t a good idea for me to feel half of the things I was feeling and I needed to run—not walk—away from her, even if I wanted to kiss the hell out of her.
She grabbed her shoulder bag and a red and blue scarf that was hanging over her chair, and I put an arm around her waist and walked her down the stairs and out to the horrible parking spot she’d wedged into on the street. I was surprised she didn’t have a ticket.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, her smile lighting up her face like the crescent moon overhead. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
I was about to agree. I’d have agreed to anything she wanted to earn more of that smile, but I couldn’t. “Oh, actually, no. We have a staff meeting in Palo Alto. One of the depressing days that won’t start with the aroma of fresh bread.”
“That kind of day’s bound to be a disappointment,” she said.
She had no idea.
“My thought as well. But there’s no way around it. Maybe I’ll stop in later when I get back. Will you be here?”
She shook her head. “Family dinner night. I’ll be fighting traffic to Berkeley by then, but you should still come by if you want your bread. I’ll make sure one of the guys saves a couple loaves for you.”
That would solve all my problems if I was only coming for the bread.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” We were awfully formal all of a sudden and it felt strange.
“See you on Friday, regular time, as in the ass crack of dawn before normal humans wake up.” Then I realized that wasn’t happening either. I needed to head to Healdsburg for the day to meet with the new general manager. “Actually, not Friday. I have to be at one of our hotels out of town.”
She shrugged. “Okay, maybe I’ll see you over the weekend. I’m working on Sunday though I’m sure you don’t get up at five in the morning on weekends. But if you’re around . . .”
I nodded. “I may be around,” I said.
I would be around.
I already felt the void from not seeing her in the morning and the bite of disappointment surprised me. Damn straight, she’d see me on Sunday. And just for insurance, I asked for her cell number.
Then I kissed the hell out of her and reluctantly let her go.
Chapter 9
Isla
The weather had settled into its traditional fog, but somewhere over my head there must have been a black cloud. By mid-Thursday, the embarrassment and hassle of Tom’s affair was almost the least of my worries.
I didn’t believe in fate or destiny. None of my siblings did. That meant that my four sisters and one brother went through life believing that anything could happen at any time without any particular provocation or reason.
Maybe it was having our dad die at an unfairly young age that led to our lack of faith, but it was rooted deeply for all of us. For that reason, I never said things like, “this week that’s already proven itself to be a shit storm is destined to get even worse.”
But maybe it was time to reconsider my lack of faith.
We got our bakes done and our breakfast and lunch orders filled at the Bay Area restaurants who we served every day, and the breakfast and coffee crowd had been replaced by a more boisterous, larger lunch crowd. Our sidewalk and inside tables were all filled, and a line snaked out the door for to-go orders.
Sometimes I hid in the kitchen when it got crazy busy in the front because I knew my staff was highly competent and completely capable of handling the ebb and flow of customers, like when the kitchen got slammed and messes were made by unapologetic toddlers or the best flakey croissants.
“Hey, the back line rang and I took a message from Frank Woods at The Tavern,” Camille told me, handing me a slip of paper where she’d scribbled his phone number.
“Thanks. Tavern’s a new contract as of last week.”
“Felicitations,” she said, following me to the front where I counted up the loaves still on the shelves. Coming into the café sometimes overwhelmed me when I was in my own groove and couldn’t get into the flow of a crowded space. The chaos stressed me the hell out.
On other days, I loved the energy, the noise, the smells, the diversity of people coming through the door. That was why I loved having the choice of where to spend my time.
“Come to the office if you have time and we can go over the orders from the new restaurants.” She nodded but didn’t follow me back into the kitchen. I knew she was checking the pastry cases to see what was selling out.
When we’d started serving actual meals in addition to breads and pastries, I’d hired a new team of prep cooks and a lunch chef. They’d increased our profit margins by twenty percent, so even though it made the place complete chaos between the hours of eleven and two, it was wor
th it.
We were busting at the seams, but the thrumming pace of the place created its own energy and instead of feeling exhausted by it, I always felt invigorated.
The rush began to taper after two like it always did and the to-go customers had taken their lunches back to their offices. Enough order had been restored that I crept upstairs to the tiny office so I could prep for the following day and the upcoming weeks.
My phone pinged with a text from Owen and my heart started fluttering. I liked my rebound guy.
Owen: I missed my daily bread fix this morning.
Of course his text was going to be about bread, not some romantic declaration about how much he missed seeing me.
Why was I even thinking about that?
Me: Spoken like a true addict. My favorite kind.
Owen: I also missed seeing you. I should have led with that.
My heart did a little flip which made me admit that my spirits had sunk every time I looked at his usual table and didn’t find him there.
But I couldn’t tell him that. It was too soon and you don’t say things like that to the rebound guy.
Me: We can remedy that on Sunday.
It felt wrong to not return his sentiment, especially since it was true. I did miss him. But I was also emotionally raw from Tom’s antics and it wasn’t fair to lead him on if I didn’t know what I was doing.
Owen: Done. It’s a date.
Me: You don’t want to date me, Bread Boy. I’m still a mess.
Owen: Sunday the 7th is a date on my calendar. It’s a date. That’s all I was saying. But if you’re asking me on a hot date, I say yes.
Me: Thanks for the clarity. See you Sunday.
He responded with a happy face emoji and I tried to refocus on the work I had ahead of me, but not until I’d reread our text string a few more times. He made me smile.
I reached for my phone and debated sending him another text. Bantering with him was much more fun than the work I had to do.
But no. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea since I was very committed to the solo time, the self-analysis, the reflection, and the wine drinking that it was going to take before I was in good emotional shape to start a new relationship.
Sitting in my office now, I couldn’t help staring at my couch and realizing I’d never done much to give the office any character or style. It was basically an industrial metal desk and an ergonomic chair with file cabinets and a window. My desk had one framed photo of my siblings from a day we’d gone sailing a couple summers ago, but otherwise, there was nothing personal in sight.
Yes, there were aprons and towels stacked on an extra chair in the corner and files that had yet to be put away sitting on the floor, but that hardly counted as decor. Becca, my middle sister and the only one with a sewing machine, had offered to make me some throw pillows or curtains when she saw the spare space, but I told her I didn’t spend enough time in the office for it to matter. I had her make me pillows and a tablecloth for my house instead.
Now I found myself thinking that maybe my office could be a little cuter just in case I ended up entertaining guests . . . on my couch . . . in the future. Better to be prepared. Maybe a candle here or there. Or at least some better lighting.
After firing off a quick text to ask Becca for some pillows, I opened my laptop.
“I love that sound,” Camille said, standing in the doorway.
I listened to the chatter of voices and the banging of dishes downstairs in the dishwashing area. I’d always gravitated toward the sounds and smells of food service kitchens, so I’d spent my teen years working in restaurants.
“It is a soothing symphony for crazy people,” I agreed.
She smiled. “You created everything down there. Amazing.” She was right, but I never dwelled on that.
Thinking about the future had always led to a dead end after college, so I’d never pictured myself running my own place. But once I decided that bread was always going to be a part of my life, my business took off and I’d been in growth mode ever since.
I’d doubled the number of restaurants I was baking for just in the last year and I’d taken on three new contracts that I needed to finalize so I could figure out how much more flour to order. Maybe I’d be able to keep the third baker permanently.
“I just wanted to go over numbers with you. Berkshire and Chester’s are asking for pastries and I don’t know how much we can do.”
So far, it had served us better to keep quality high and prices a little higher and serve fewer restaurants. The perceived scarcity of our product made it more valuable to the restaurants we did business with.
But we’d pretty much hit capacity in-house. There weren’t many more loaves I could squeeze out of our ovens in a given day, no matter how many people I hired. And there was interest from restaurants in Oakland and Los Altos.
“Not much more. Time for new kitchen space and more locations,” she said, excitement in her voice. She knew she’d be my number one pick to run a new bakery.
Expanding and training bread makers at a few more bakery cafés around the Bay Area made sense. I’d thought about it once before, but the amount of work involved to do a volume business and keep quality high felt daunting.
Now I felt ready.
I scanned the emails, looking for the ones from the new restaurants so we could start running the numbers. My quick back of the envelope calculation had estimated at least a hundred fifty additional sourdough loaves and some specialty olive and rosemary rounds, plus six dozen pastries.
But when I started reading the ones from the new clients, I noticed a problem.
One after another, I scanned the emails from the three restaurants I’d negotiated with, noticing they’d all been sent this morning. Oddly, they all said a version of the same thing—they were canceling their agreements for ongoing orders and wouldn’t be signing a contract with me after all.
It was strange.
Of course, people changed their minds and a handshake deal doesn’t mean anything until it’s been signed and executed. I’d had clients back out before.
But never three in the same day.
“Hey, Cam, can we do this later? Sorry. I have to straighten some stuff out first.”
“Of course. Lemme know,” she said, popping back downstairs.
I texted my younger sister, Becca, whose fiancé Blake owned several restaurants and knew a lot of the owners in the city. They’d just gotten engaged and he was crazy about her. I needed to work any angle I could.
Me: Hey, any idea if Blake knows people at Zen Table, Berkshire Creamery or Chester’s Bakery?
Becca: No idea. Ping him directly. He won’t mind.
Me: You sure?
Becca: Stop being ridiculous. And quit fangirling my boyfriend.
Me: Not fangirling. Just being polite.
Becca: Whatever, chef groupie. *smiley face*
I’d admit to fangirling Blake, a respected, high-end chef who’d opened a San Francisco restaurant that had already won a bunch of awards and accolades in its first few months.
I’d been supplying his restaurant with bread since it opened but I always felt like he indulged me as a favor to Becca. The guy intimidated me and I only got intimidated by a handful of food people.
But Becca said to text him, so I did.
In under fifteen minutes, he was calling my cell, after having done recon around town on my behalf.
“Hey, Blake. Thanks for this. I’m sure it’s nothing and it’s just me being paranoid, but it’s so weird—”
He cut me off. “Isla, you’re not paranoid. Something’s definitely up. First of all, you should know that it’s nothing about you or the quality of your product or anything about that. All three chefs were practically in tears when the owners told them they weren’t going to be getting your stuff.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear, but not if they’re gonna cry their way to another bread supplier. So what’s going on?” Compliments did me no good if I was los
ing business.
“Someone’s undercutting your contracts, offering what they claim is the same artisanal bread baked with flour from the same terroir. They’re going by the name of Flour Artisan, but I haven’t seen any shops with that name so it’s either brand new or a renamed version of something that’s been around. I’ll keep hunting for more info. It’s all a bit mysterious for now. But they’re killing you on price.”
I was shocked. “I can’t think of any bakers in the area who are working with my vendors, whether they’re changing their name or not. Seriously, none. My people are loyal. They’d tell me if a competitor was trying to buy from them.”
“It might not be your vendors, but whoever this is found some farmer who will flood his field and grow similar wheat. It’s someone who knows an awful lot about your business. Down to dollar amounts that you spend on flour and employee pensions. Usually that takes corporate muscle. You might be up against someone who’s willing to take a loss in order to beat you.”
My heart started pounding and not in a good way. I’d never had this problem before. I knew my farmers and I knew every Bay Area restaurant owner who cared about ingredients the way I did and I was selling to all of them.
Until now, apparently.
“I can’t think of anyone in the area doing the same thing I am, at least not on a scale that would allow for a bunch of restaurant contracts.”
“It might not be in the area. It could be an outfit out of state. Who knows? I didn’t have time to dig into an internet search. Flour Artisan could be a DBA for some other company, and they could be incorporated outside the US. If they don’t want you to find out who they are, you probably won’t.”
“Shit. Well, that ain’t good,” I said.
“No, it’s not. But I let those restaurant owners have it and I think they’ll be calling you. They know better than to forgo local for some corporate outfit that’s probably sending them frozen bread, even if they’re selling it for a penny.”
That got my attention. “You think it’s coming to them frozen from someplace else?” I thought about the grocery down the block and wondered where they were getting their bread. I never cared to ask, but maybe it was time to strike up a friendship.
Falling for You Page 7