Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
The text came from Margot at 11:47 AM on a Wednesday.
EMERGENCY. Come to wine bar NOW. Bringing Bash.
Ivy stared at her phone. She was covered in meringue and had three orders to finish before lunch. But Margot didn’t do emergency summons for fun.
She texted back: Give me 20 minutes.
Exactly twenty minutes later, she pushed through the wine bar’s door to find Margot and Bash already there. Bash looked grim. Margot looked excited and stressed in equal measure.
“What’s wrong?” Ivy asked.
Margot slid her laptop across the bar. “Read.”
It was open to a food blog. Not just any food blog—Refined Palate, the blog run by James Thorne, one of the most respected food critics on the East Coast. The man who could make or break restaurants with a single review.
The headline made Ivy’s stomach drop: Small Town, Big Flavors: Fall Food Tour
She scanned the article. James Thorne was doing a tour of New England small towns known for their food scenes. Hitting farmers markets. Reviewing restaurants. And—
“He’s coming here,” Ivy breathed.
“Next week,” Margot confirmed. “Mayor Diane just got the email. He’s specifically interested in Willowbrook because of the ‘exciting new collaboration between a Michelin-worthy chef and an up-and-coming pastry talent.'”
Ivy looked up. “How does he know about us?”
“Someone from the food festival committee has been promoting it online,” Margot said. “They mentioned your joint dessert. Mentioned that Bash and you are working together. Thorne saw it.”
Bash was very quiet. Too quiet. His jaw was tight, hands flat on the bar.
“He’s coming to Sweet Haven,” Ivy said slowly. “And Moreau’s.”
“Both,” Margot confirmed. “He wants to review both businesses. Said something about ‘the sweet and savory of Willowbrook’s culinary renaissance.'”
Ivy sat down hard.
This was huge. James Thorne could launch careers. His reviews got picked up by national publications. If he loved Sweet Haven, she could have people driving from Boston, from New York, from—
If he hated it, she was done.
“When?” she asked.
“Next Wednesday. Lunch at Sweet Haven. Dinner at Moreau’s.”
One week. She had one week to make sure everything was perfect. The croissants. The pastries. The new cinnamon rolls she’d been testing. Everything had to be flawless.
Ivy looked at Bash. He still hadn’t spoken. His face was pale under his tan.
“Bash?” she said quietly.
“I need this,” he said, voice tight. “This review. If Thorne gives me a good review, I could—I could actually get a Michelin star. That’s been the dream. The goal. Everything I’ve worked for.”
There was something desperate in his voice. Raw.
“You’ll get a good review,” Ivy said. “Your food is incredible.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t happy. “You’ve never eaten my food.”
“I’ve tasted your caramel. I’ve watched you work. I know you’re incredible.”
Their eyes met. Something passed between them. Something charged and complicated.
Margot cleared her throat. “So. Game plan. You both need to be at your absolute best. Ivy, your pastries need to be perfect. Bash, your dinner needs to be flawless. And for the love of God, if he asks about your collaboration, be NICE to each other.”
“We are nice now,” Ivy protested.
“You had a passive-aggressive argument about parking spot numbers yesterday,” Margot said. “I watched from my window.”
“That was different. That was—”
“Habit,” Bash finished. He ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll be professional. We can do professional.”
“Can you?” Margot looked skeptical.
“Yes,” they said in unison, then glared at each other for saying it in unison.
Margot sighed. “You’re both disasters. Cute disasters, but disasters.”
Ivy spent the rest of the day in a spiral of panic and preparation.
She made lists. Checked inventory. Tested recipes. Made more lists. Stayed up until 2 AM perfecting her chocolate croissants because what if Thorne ordered chocolate croissants and they weren’t perfect and he wrote that she was a fraud and—
Her phone buzzed.
Bash: You’re spiraling.
She stared at it. How did he—
Another text: I can see your lights from my window. Go to sleep.
Ivy: How do you know I’m spiraling?
Bash: Because I’m spiraling too.
Ivy: Can’t sleep. What if he hates everything?
Bash: Then we try again. That’s the job.
Ivy: Easy for you to say. You’ve done this before.
A pause. Then: I’m terrified.
Just those two words, and Ivy felt something shift in her chest. Bash—confident, controlled, perfect Bash—was terrified too.
Ivy: What if we both fail?
Bash: What if we both succeed?
She smiled despite herself.
Ivy: Optimism? From you?
Bash: Don’t get used to it. I’m still terrified.
Ivy: Me too.
Bash: Go to sleep, Ivy.
Ivy: Only if you do.
Bash: Deal. Lights off in 5 minutes.
Ivy watched through her window. Exactly five minutes later, the lights in Moreau’s kitchen went off.
She turned off her own lights and climbed the stairs to her apartment. Sleep didn’t come easily, but knowing Bash was trying too helped somehow.
The next six days passed in a blur of preparation.
Ivy tested every recipe. Cleaned every surface. Reorganized the display case four times. Practiced plating until her hands cramped.
She saw Bash through the window doing the same. Tasting. Adjusting. Running his hands through his hair in frustration. She’d started to recognize his tells. The hair thing meant he was stressed. The jaw clench meant he was thinking. The tiny almost-smile meant he’d figured something out.
She should not know his tells this well.
On Tuesday night, less than twenty-four hours before Thorne’s visit, there was a knock on her back door.
Bash stood there with a small container.
“What’s this?” Ivy asked.
“Sourdough starter,” he said. “For your baguettes. Mine’s been alive for eight years. It’s better than the one I gave you last time.”
She took it, throat tight. “Thank you.”
“And this.” He handed her a folded piece of paper. “My mother’s recipe for canelés. They’re tricky, but if you want to impress Thorne…” He shrugged. “They’re impressive.”
Ivy unfolded the paper. The recipe was written in French, with notes in Bash’s handwriting translating and adjusting.
“Your mother’s recipe,” she said softly.
“She would have liked you,” Bash said. “She believed food should make people happy. You believe that too.”
“Bash—”
“Good luck tomorrow. Not that you need it. You’re going to be great.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Ivy said. “Do you want to—I don’t know. Do you want to come in? Have tea or something?”
He hesitated. For a moment, she thought he’d say yes.
Then: “I should prep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Right. Of course.”
But he lingered in the doorway. “Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens tomorrow—with the review—you’re talented. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself.”
Before she could respond, he was gone.
Ivy stood there holding his mother’s recipe and a jar of eight-year-old sourdough starter and felt dangerously close to crying.
This was bad. This feeling in her chest. This warmth. This hope.
She was falling for Sebastian Moreau.
And tomorrow, everything could change.
Reader Reactions