Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
James Thorne’s lunch review went better than Ivy dared hope.
He was a thin man in his fifties with sharp eyes and an unreadable expression. He’d ordered a chocolate croissant, a canelé, and a cappuccino. Ivy watched from the kitchen, hands shaking, as he tasted each item with the intense focus of a surgeon.
He took notes. Lots of notes.
Then he’d thanked her, paid, and left without comment.
Ivy had no idea if it went well or if she’d just failed spectacularly.
She was stress-cleaning the espresso machine when her phone buzzed.
Bash: How did it go?
Ivy: No idea. He took notes. Could mean anything.
Bash: You did great. I’m sure of it.
Ivy: How do you know?
Bash: Because you’re talented. And your croissants are perfect.
She stared at the text, warmth blooming in her chest.
Ivy: Good luck tonight. You’re going to blow him away.
Bash: Or give him food poisoning and end my career.
Ivy: BASH.
Bash: Kidding. Mostly. Wish me luck?
Ivy: All the luck. Every single bit of luck in the universe.
At 7:00 PM, Ivy did something probably inadvisable.
She walked to Moreau’s.
The restaurant was beautiful in the evening light. Warm and intimate, with maybe twenty tables and an open kitchen where she could see Bash moving. He was in full chef mode—focused, precise, calling orders to Leo with quiet authority.
Margot was there, sitting at the bar. She waved Ivy over.
“Couldn’t stay away?” Margot asked, grinning.
“I’m morally supporting,” Ivy said, sliding onto the stool beside her.
“Uh-huh. Which one of you is this moral support for—him or you?”
“Him. Obviously. This is his big night.”
“And you’re here because…”
“Because I—” Ivy stopped. Why was she here? “Because we’re partners. On the dessert. So I should… support him.”
Margot’s smile was knowing. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
From the kitchen, Bash looked up. His eyes found Ivy immediately. For a second, surprise crossed his face. Then something softer. He gave her a small nod before turning back to his station.
“He’s been looking at the door every five minutes,” Margot said quietly. “I think he was hoping you’d come.”
Ivy’s heart did that stupid fluttery thing again.
James Thorne was at a table in the corner, working through his meal with the same intense focus he’d brought to her bakery. Ivy couldn’t see what he was eating, but she could see Bash plating each course with excruciating care.
“He’s terrified,” Margot observed. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Like what?”
“Vulnerable.”
Ivy watched Bash taste a sauce, adjust it, taste again. His movements were controlled, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way he kept checking Thorne’s table.
“He wants this so badly,” Ivy said softly.
“He does. But I don’t think he knows why anymore.”
Ivy looked at Margot. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve known Bash for three years. Since he opened this place. He’s always been chasing something—Michelin stars, perfect reviews, validation. But in the past few weeks…” Margot tilted her head. “He’s been different. Lighter. I’ve seen him smile more in the past month than in three years combined.”
“He doesn’t smile that much,” Ivy protested.
“He does around you.”
Ivy’s cheeks heated. “We’re just—we’re working together. That’s all.”
“If you say so.” Margot sipped her wine. “But for what it’s worth? I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
Before Ivy could respond, there was movement in the kitchen. Bash was plating the final course. Dessert.
Ivy leaned forward. It was the dish they’d created together—the croissant bread pudding with dark chocolate and bourbon caramel. But Bash had elevated it even further. The plating was exquisite. The portion was perfect. The quenelle of ice cream was flawless.
Leo carried it to Thorne’s table.
The entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath.
Thorne took a bite. Chewed slowly. Took another bite.
Made a note.
Bash was staring at his station, hands flat on the counter, not watching but clearly hyper-aware.
Ivy wanted to go to him. Wanted to tell him it would be okay. Wanted to—
Thorne stood. Walked to the kitchen.
Oh God.
“Chef Moreau?” Thorne said.
Bash looked up. His face was carefully blank. “Yes?”
“That dessert. Did you create it?”
A pause. Then: “I collaborated with the baker next door. Ivy Sinclair at Sweet Haven. It was both of us.”
Thorne looked thoughtful. “The same baker whose croissants I had this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” Thorne made another note. “The dessert is exceptional. Best thing I’ve eaten all week. The marriage of technique and heart—it’s rare. I’d like to speak with both of you before I leave town. Would tomorrow work?”
Bash’s eyes widened slightly. “Tomorrow is fine.”
“Excellent. I’ll be in touch.” Thorne nodded and left.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Leo whooped. “Chef! He loved it!”
The kitchen erupted. Leo hugging the line cooks. Bash standing very still, looking stunned.
Ivy didn’t think. She just moved.
She walked into the kitchen—past the tables, past the professional boundary, past every reason this was inappropriate—and stopped in front of Bash.
“You did it,” she said.
He looked at her. Really looked at her. “We did it.”
“Bash—”
“I told him the truth. That we created it together. I couldn’t—” His voice caught. “I couldn’t take credit for something that’s half yours. More than half. The heart of it, the joy—that’s all you.”
Ivy’s eyes burned. “The technique is all you.”
“We balance,” he said quietly.
They stood there in the middle of his kitchen, staff celebrating around them, and Ivy thought: I’m in trouble. I’m in so much trouble.
Because she wasn’t just falling for Sebastian Moreau anymore.
She’d already fallen.
“So,” Bash said an hour later.
Service was over. The staff had left. It was just him and Ivy in his kitchen, sitting on overturned crates, eating the backup bread pudding.
“So,” Ivy echoed.
“He wants to interview us tomorrow. Both of us. About the collaboration.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready for that?”
Ivy laughed. “Are you?”
“No. I hate interviews. I always say the wrong thing.”
“You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”
“Myself is grumpy and antisocial.”
“Yourself is talented and passionate,” Ivy corrected. “Talk about the food. You’re good at that.”
Bash was quiet for a moment. Then: “Will you help me? With the interview? You’re better with people.”
“You want me there?”
“I want you there,” he said, and the way he said it made it sound like more than just an interview.
“Okay,” Ivy said. “Partners.”
“Partners.”
They finished the bread pudding in comfortable silence. And when Ivy finally left to go home, Bash walked her to the door.
“Thank you,” he said. “For coming tonight. For being here.”
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else,” Ivy said honestly.
His expression did something complicated. “Ivy, I—”
“Yeah?”
A long pause. Then: “Nothing. Get some sleep.”
But he didn’t move. And neither did she. They stood in the doorway, close enough that Ivy could see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes. Close enough to notice he smelled like cooking and caramel.
Close enough to kiss.
“Goodnight, Bash,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Ivy.”
She made herself leave. Made herself walk back to her bakery. Made herself not look back even though she wanted to.
But when she did glance over her shoulder at the last second, he was still standing there, watching her go.
And she knew—absolutely knew—that something had changed between them.
Something irreversible and terrifying and wonderful.
Tomorrow, they’d face the food critic together.
Tonight, she’d admit to herself that she was in love with her grumpy neighbor.
And maybe, possibly, he might feel the same way.
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