One
Avital Cohen wasn’t wearing underwear.
Standing behind the front counter of Best Babka in Brooklyn, holding their signature pink box in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, she tried to ignore the pain radiating through her lower abdomen. Despite the fact there was a line spreading around the block, and Shabbat was less than four hours away, the middle-aged woman with streaks of purple in her hair was taking her sweet time.
“I’ve got three black-and-white biscotti,” Mrs. Purpleman said, speaking into her cell phone. “Four confetti rugelach, one challah...I know, I know, but Alyssa is on one of her health kicks, again.”
Her name wasn’t Mrs. Purpleman. It was just one of many nicknames that Avital had created in order to remember customers. Mrs. Purpleman was, in fact, Mrs. Perlman, and Avital had come up with the name because she wore her hair styled into a bob and dyed a deep maroon. The effect of which always managed to look purple.
Mrs. Purpleman had been a longtime customer of Best Babka in Brooklyn, arriving like clockwork every Friday morning to stock up on Shabbat goodies for her family.
“But if I buy two challahs,” Mrs. Purpleman sighed heavily into her cell, “she’ll say I’m not validating her feelings...”
Avital glanced down the long line and wondered when Mrs. Purpleman—a professional go-getter when it came to lengthy and irrational amounts of indecision at the counter—would finally notice the eye rolls behind her and make a choice.
“Well, how do you think she’ll feel about some apple cake macaroons?” Mrs. Purpleman asked into her phone.
Avital interrupted. “Those are really good.”
She looked up. “Really?”
Avital began loading three cookies into the box. “They’re always a huge seller on Fridays,” she said, putting a fourth into the box that was angling in the direction of Mrs. Purpleman. “Can I help you with anything else today?”
“Oh.” Mrs. Purpleman placed one finger on her chin. “Well, I guess not...”
All at once, she felt bad for losing her patience.
Normally, Avital was good with the clientele. She could typically deal with indecisive customers and long lines and the total lack of smiles or gratitude that came with the Shabbat rush hour...but today, she was once again dealing with a flare-up of her chronic-pain condition.
Since being diagnosed with interstitial cystitis two years ago at the age of twenty-two, her life could be boiled down to one phrase. She came, she saw...she realized she needed to pee and quickly stopped whatever she was doing in order to find a bathroom.
“Tell you what,” Avital said, grabbing two pink boxes tied up in white twine from a shelf behind her. “Why don’t I throw in two pumpkin-spiced babkas for free?”
“For free?” Mrs. Purpleman asked, confused.
“I know I’m rushing you here,” Avital said, bouncing up and down in her spot. “It’s just... It’s an emergency, Mrs. Perlman.”
Mrs. Purpleman finally twisted in her spot and noticed the line. “Oh, Avital—” she said, touching her heart, embarrassed “—I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize!”
“It’s okay.”
“No, no...” She shook her head, apologizing profusely. “My husband always says, ‘Goldie—you take too much time with everything. Just make a decision!’ I don’t know why it’s always so hard for me. I just get nervous, you know, and Alyssa is going through this whole phase, where everything I do is wrong...”
“I know, Mrs. Perlman,” Avital said, gently, before angling to move her along. “You have a good Shabbat, okay? I’ll see you next week.”
Handing the box to Tootles at the front counter, Avital began calling out the order. “One pound marzipan,” she shouted over the hum of the crowds, “Three black-and-white biscotti, four confetti rugelachs, one challah, four apple cake macaroons.”
“What about the babkas?” Tootles called back.
“On the house,” Avital said, and swiftly began taking off her apron. Her break came just in time. Her twin brother, Josh, had just returned from his lunch break. “Baruch Hashem,” she said, handing her apron to him.
“That good today, huh?” Josh asked sympathetically.
“You have no idea.”
Avital escaped through the back door, sprinting down the hall toward her office, where she could enjoy the privileges of an attached private bathroom.
As she closed the door behind her, the vent fan and light turned on, buzzing into a familiar hum. Considering how much time she spent there, her mother had tried to spruce up the place—make it feel more homey and comfortable—with the addition of fancy pink soap and a small dish full of potpourri. Instead, all the floral scents really managed to do was seep into her frizzy hair and make her smell like cherry cough syrup.
Sitting down on the toilet, Avital shut her eyes and tried to breathe though her pain. The burning, aching pressure increased. Her stomach cramped. Really what she needed to do was to take the day off. Lie in bed, with ice between her legs and a heating pad on top of her belly, drowning in rescues, the colloquial term for the over-the-counter medications and nontraditional remedies used when the pain was at its worst.
Unfortunately, going home was not an option. Even though she had specifically returned to work at Best Babka in Brooklyn for the familial benefit of taking off as needed—a luxury not afforded to most anyone living with chronic pain and chronic illness—they were desperate. With its lines out the door and rapidly expanding social-media presence, the bakery needed support staff as much as it needed flour.
A small whine of pain escaped her lips as she finished her business. She waited for relief, for the feeling of better to return to her body...but her pain was relentless. That was the hardest part of it, really. The fact that it never stopped. The fact that it just went on and on, sometimes shifting form but never being eradicated completely.
Returning to the front counter, she found both Tootles and Josh sweating bullets, working hard to fill orders. As general manager, Avital didn’t often work the front counter, but Sara, one of their bakers, had a custody hearing in Manhattan to attend that day.
Avital threw on an apron and scanned the line. Though it seemed impossible, the crowd cramming the front entrance had doubled in size during the three minutes she was stuck in the bathroom. Avital grabbed a pink box.
“Next!” she called out.
A woman with a baby angled on the edge of her hip stepped forward.
“What can I get you?” Avital asked.
“Two challahs,” Mother Russia said, the thick accent that had earned her the nickname from Avital, evident in her voice. “Six honey cookies, one black-and-white cheesecake, and a mandel brownie.”
Upside: Mother Russia was always decisive. She came in, ordered quickly, and left. She also never smiled or said thank you, which, weirdly enough, actually felt like a gift. Avital didn’t have to fake wellness. She didn't
have to smile through her pain. She could be just like Mother Russia, totally unconcerned about American social norms.
“Anything else?” Avital said.
“No,” Mother Russia said, catching the teething giraffe just before it fell to the floor.
“Great.”
Avital handed off the box to Josh. She was just about to call out the order, when the sight of a young man—pushing his way through the crowd—caught her attention.
Holy pumpkin-spiced babka.
Avital faltered. The tongs dangled unused in her hand. Her lower lip parted from the top, jaw dropping. The long line dissipated into silence. There were twenty-five people waiting at the counter, but her eyes were transfixed on the stranger.
He was exactly her type. Square shoulders. Tangled dark curls that lifted like swirls of icing off a perfectly molded face. The most gloriously prominent nose. He was a recipe of charm, all plated together by a navy blue peacoat and gray fitted trousers. He made his way through the crowd, tapping old ladies on the shoulders to offer apologies as he squeezed past.
She couldn’t help but be curious. Avital knew most everyone who came into the shop on Friday. They were locals and diehards. People who—like her own family—never skipped a Shabbat.
And then, Prince Charming cut the line.
Her ire began to rise. There was nothing she hated more, on a busy Shabbat afternoon, than a person who cheated the system. Prince Charming suddenly morphed into Sir Cheat-a-Lot.
“Excuse me,” Avital said, pointing her tongs at his head, “there’s a line.”
Sir Cheat-a-Lot smiled nervously. “Uh, no, I... I don’t think...”
“Yeah,” Avital said, rolling her eyes. “I know. Your Shabbat dinner is very important. Far more important than the other three hundred people waiting before you.” She turned to Mrs. Grossman, waiting patiently with her pocketbook, directly behind him. “Can I help you today, Mrs. Grossman?”
“Oh yes,” the old woman said, leaning over the counter. “I’ll take four black-and-white cookies...”
Avital grabbed a pink box. Sir Cheat-a-Lot decided to tempt fate, and her patience, on a high-pain day.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his perfectly adorable cheeks turning red in the process. “I think you’re misunderstanding my intention here.”
Avital didn’t have time for this. She glanced over to Rafi, a plump middle-aged Israeli they had hired for security, and waved him forward.
“Rafi!” Avital shouted. “Can you please show our guest where the line begins?”
“Not a problem, Avi,” Rafi said and moved to escort the trespasser outside.
Avital returned her attention to dear, sweet Mrs. Grossman. Rafi grabbed the young man by his arm. But Sir Cheat-a-Lot shrugged out of his grasp
and reached into the backpack he was wearing, pulling out a piece of paper.
“I’m here for the job interview,” he said, speaking quickly, waving it in her direction.
Avital stopped serving Mrs. Grossman. “What?”
“My name is Ethan Rosenberg,” he explained, nervously glancing toward Rafi. “I have an interview scheduled with the general manager here at two thirty. I believe her name is—” he glanced down at his sheet to double-check “—Avital Cohen. We confirmed via email on Monday.”
Avital squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to die of embarrassment.
She had completely forgotten.
Then again, she had been up all night—every hour, on the hour—using the bathroom, only to return to bed, exhausted and miserable, with pelvic spasms that didn’t let her sleep. Was it any wonder she was forgetting job interviews with desperately needed help? Or that the hours were painfully and purposefully slipping by focused on other things?
Avital waved Rafi off. Then, handing Mrs. Grossman off to Josh, she directed her attention back to the handsome interloper. “Come with me,” she said, raising the entrance to the front counter.
She had to press her body all the way back to allow him to pass. The wool of the merino sweater he was wearing beneath his coat—his broad and apparently extremely fit chest—swiped against her own.
“Sorry,” she said, straightening her back. “It’s...tight.”
“No problem.” He grinned.
She blanked. She knew there were words in her vocabulary, and that she was supposed to be using them, but all she could focus on was his scent. He smelled incredible. Like the leaves of a freshly cut eucalyptus plant, woodsy and delectable.
It was not like her to get so flustered around a man. She considered herself far too practical to be the type of woman who gave in to romantic whims. But he had this bold sort of confidence in the way he walked, and his sense of fashion was impeccable...and all that masculine energy, brushing up against her, reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in years.
It made her feel vulnerable. Exposed.
Avital thought back to his résumé. “I’m sure you’re used to working in much bigger places.”
“Bigger isn’t necessarily better,” he said, as if anticipating her own misgivings. His voice was deep and dreamy. “There’s a lot that can be learned from working in more challenging spaces.”
He was saying all the right things.
He was stoking her imagination, too.
Avital needed to get a grip. Especially since her twin brother was side-eyeing them curiously from the counter.
She waved Ethan to follow, leading him down the hallway and back to her main office in order to begin his interview. Even though she knew—as sure as the burning pain radiating through her lower abdomen—that there was no way in olam haba she would ever hire him.
Two
Ethan Lippmann was walking through enemy territory.
Following after Avital Cohen, passing through hallways, he couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the space. Best Babka in Brooklyn was a thriving bakery in full swing. In one area, employees in branded T-shirts pounded dough on steel countertops. In another, a woman in a long black skirt counted out hundreds of challahs, traditional braided breads, placing them into plastic bags for sale.
Dotting every hall were signs of their success. Platters of baked goods were stacked up by an exit, waiting to be picked up by delivery drivers. Bags of challah were being stacked up for last-minute Shabbat pickups. What filled the majority of the space, however, and damn near overran every free inch, were pink boxes, each one a receptacle for their well-known pumpkin-spiced babka.
“You guys are certainly busy,” Ethan said.
“And getting busier,” Avital admitted.
Ethan had to be careful with the next question. “Is it all because of your babka?” he asked, feigning ignorance. “I’ve heard all about your world-famous pumpkin-spiced babka from my friends at culinary school.” It was a lie, of course. Ethan had never been to culinary school. He didn’t even know how to cook.
“We’re known for a lot of things,” Avital said.
“Of course.”
“But obviously, our pumpkin-spiced babka—created by my grandfather, Chayim Cohen—is what we’re most famous for. It’s our anchor recipe, the thing that brings new customers in. What keeps them coming back is all the rest,” Avital said as she bent down to push a stack of pink boxes out of the way.
The place was a fire hazard.
With luck, they would burn themselves down.
Since he was twelve, Ethan had heard about the Cohens from his grandfather, Moishe Lippmann. It was like a bedtime story in their family. A retelling that occurred every Passover Seder so that each generation would remember. Chayim Cohen had attempted to ruin his grandfather by throwing him out of the business they had built together. Chayim Cohen hated the Lippmanns and riddled their lives with frivolous lawsuits and one-star reviews. Chayim Cohen didn’t even bother to pick up the phone or send a shiva platter when Ethan’s parents died.
This was not corporate espionage. This was not revenge between two rival families, each hell-bent on torturing the other. This was Chayim Cohen getting what he deserved.
Whether or not Ethan agreed with his grandfather’s sentiment really didn’t matter. He was twenty-four years old, and as the oldest surviving grandson, he was heir to the Lippmann empire. That position came with certain responsibilities. Not only to his grandfather, but to the company he had spent every summer working at since he was fourteen.
Lippmann’s. Anyone Jewish would have heard of them. In a world of Twinkies and Ding Dongs, they were the only mass-produced kosher baked good to line supermarket shelves. Since 1962, you could walk into any Jewish home, in any state or neighborhood across the country, and see their quintessential yellow-and-blue boxes stacked on the counters.
Most often, with a knife still left in the box and all the best parts of the dessert picked off and eaten. The point being, they were not just well loved and well-known for their delights—their black-and-white cake or their pumpkin crumble doughnut—they were part of Jewish culture.
Unfortunately, the modern age had brought with it a host of troubles for Lippmann’s. The world had changed, and with it, their consumer base. For one, there were way more options for kosher baked goods. In addition, families had become less interested in lining their kitchen counters with processed foods. With the advent of social media especially, everyone wanted the homemade and artisanal goods they saw on Instagram.
It was a sad reality showing in Lippmann’s numbers. Despite all their best efforts to retain distribution partners and increase sales, the Lippmann’s corner of the baked-goods market was rapidly shrinking. They needed to come up with a plan.
Ethan had his own ideas about how to revitalize his grandfather’s company. He spent months scouring numbers, searching for sales reports, taking meetings. But whatever Ethan proposed, Moishe rejected it
it outright.
Then, one day—like a bush burning in the middle of a desert—Moishe saw an ad in the local Jewish paper. Best Babka in Brooklyn was looking for help. All at once, the memory of the long-standing feud between their two families rose to the surface once more. The old curmudgeon came up with an idea.
All Ethan had to do was infiltrate the business of his longtime enemy and steal the recipe for their world-famous pumpkin-spiced babka. After which, Lippmann’s would replace their once popular pumpkin crumble doughnut with pumpkin-spiced babka, saving their corporate empire while also putting Chayim Cohen, and Best Babka in Brooklyn, out of business forever.
Whether or not Ethan liked the idea—or frankly, thought it was a good one—was irrelevant. His grandfather had given him a task. You did not disappoint Moishe Lippmann. The man had not become a billionaire by having long, heartfelt talks about feelings with his grandsons.
“I apologize for not realizing who you were before,” Avital said.
Ethan felt his heart skip. “Who I was?”
“I had completely forgotten about you coming in for an interview today.”
Ethan was relieved that he had misunderstood.
Still, the comment made him nervous. At any moment, someone could identify him.
He tried to remind himself of the positive. His legal name was Ethan Rosenberg, which he had kept after his father died. He had spent hours wiping clean the Lippmann’s corporate website and social-media feeds, removing any pictures of himself. He had even set up a fake address to use on employment papers, an easy-enough task when your company had corporate apartments. As for references, he had handled that, too, outsourcing the task to a service he had found online.
The lawyers had assured him that what he was doing wasn’t illegal, even if he felt it was unethical. But what could he do? Moishe wasn’t content to send some stranger in to do their dirty work. A stranger could never be trusted like family.
Ethan understood the importance of loyalty. What he was not expecting, however, was Avital Cohen. Based on his grandfather’s retellings, he would have been less shocked if his interview was with some screeching Demogorgon. Alas, Avital Cohen was no horror show. Much to his dismay, she was attractive.
Ethan was drawn to her blue eyes and the way they’d lingered on his own when he entered the establishment. For one iota of a second, he had thought that she was also attracted to him...but then he realized she was calling security.
Walking behind her, his eyes continued trailing the length of her form. She was striking, with blond hair spun into wayward and frizzy curls. High cheekbones.
She was also quite tall, with legs that immediately made him wonder how long it would take to run his tongue up them.
He shook the thought away. Avital was the enemy, after all...and he was here on a mission.
He searched for reasons to reject her. For one, she was the worst-dressed woman he had ever laid eyes on. Beneath a T-shirt, which read I Danced My Socks Off at Rachel’s Bat Mitzvah, she wore a white cotton skirt decorated with ruffles.
The pièce de résistance, however, came at her ankles. For some reason, she had seen fit to wear Birkenstocks paired with pink Wigwams. In truth, it looked like she got dressed in the dark.
Beyond the fact that her choice of outfit was totally inappropriate for the weather—she would most certainly die of hypothermia in such attire—the ruffles in her skirt seemed purposefully designed to tease him. Despite wanting to keep his eye on anything but her tuchus, he couldn’t help but find himself lingering on her hips. The hip-to-waist ratio she was sporting seemed impossible.
But even beneath the oversize clothing, he could see it. Though he loathed himself for admitting it, she was exactly his type. Despite her overall thin form, she was still inappropriately wide in all the right places. He could imagine himself gripping those hips, pulling her closer to him.
And then, Avital stopped. Full-on came to a complete standstill in the hallway. Pressing one hand against the brick wall, she bent over halfway, before taking deep and staggered breaths. Had he been walking any quicker, he would have run directly into her delicious-looking back end. Not that he would ever consider bumping rumps with Avital. One did not bump rumps with their mortal archenemy.
The way she had stopped and then keeled over without any explanation left him perplexed. He had no idea what she was doing. None. But the anxiety he was a pro at hiding beneath a confident exterior began to peek through the cracks.
Did she recognize him? Did she know he was really a Lippmann? His grandfather would never forgive him if he failed at this task...and then what would happen to his siblings?
Perhaps his younger brother, Randy, would be okay, cut off from the family fortune. But his older sister, Kayla, needed full-time and round-the-clock care. She lived in an expensive, privately funded assisted-living center in Upstate New York. It was Kayla, especially, that kept Ethan toeing the line when it came to his ironfisted grandfather.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “Excuse me, Avital?”
“What?”
“Is everything okay?”
It seemed like a reasonable question, but she answered it with the most resounding Uuugh he had ever heard in his life. And then, Avital pushed off the wall and began sprinting.
“Can you move quicker?” she shouted back at him.
“What?” Ethan asked, bemused.
“Quicker!” she snapped.
Ethan nearly died tripping on a pile of pink boxes, trying to keep up with her.
Finally, she brought him to her office. Just like the rest of the bakery, the large room with a desk and attached bathroom was a mess. Papers littered the room. Boxes of shipping labels, bags of holiday decor and more pink boxes plagued every available inch of space.
Avital pointed to a chair in front of a desk. “You can just take a seat.”
“Thank—”
He did not have time to finish the thought. Avital squeaked around on her sandals, disappearing down the hall. Ethan did as she had instructed, taking a seat. He waited. And waited. After a solid five minutes of solitude, boredom got the best of him. Ethan pulled out his phone to find three dozen text messages from his grandfather.
Did you see Chayim?
Where is the recipe?
WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG, ETHAN?!?!?!
I knew you would disappoint me.
He closed the phone. Moments later, Avital came sprinting back through the threshold of her office.
“Sorry about that,” Avital said, taking a seat at her desk, barely making eye contact.
Ethan forced a smile. “Not a problem.”
The rest came in an almost rapid-fire succession of facts. Without coming up for air, Avital explained who she was, a brief history of Best Babka in Brooklyn, and why they needed help. Whatever attraction he had initially felt for her dissipated. In addition to being the worst-dressed person on the planet, she was also the most inhospitable woman he had ever met.
“You studied culinary arts at college?” she asked.
“That’s correct.”
“And you’re experienced with baked goods?”
“I was trained at the New York Institute of Culinary Education,” Ethan said, working hard to win her over. “And did two years at Le Beurre in Paris. My main body of expertise is in French desserts, however. I did invent my own ice cream once.”
“Ice cream?”
“Who doesn’t like ice cream, right? For Rosh Hashanah, I made a delicious apple and honey—”
“We don’t make ice cream here.”
Ethan bit back his annoyance. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
It was not going well.
Avital sighed, short and resigned. “Look,” she explained succinctly, “I appreciate you coming out for this position. Obviously, you’re qualified. I would even venture to guess you’re overqualified.”
“So that means I’m hired?”
“No.”
She shifted in her seat, before once again closing her eyes. Ethan swallowed the insult. Her entire body language screamed that she wanted this interview over as quickly as possible. Like every second sitting there with Ethan was making her miserable. What was this woman’s
problem?
He was normally quite good at molding himself into whatever people wanted from him.
“I’ll be quite honest with you, Ethan,” she said, finally reopening her eyes, huffing out a determined breath. “Your résumé is great. Better than anyone else’s I’m looking at for the same position. But my fear is...you won’t be happy here. I worry that you’ll find the work beneath you. And no one gets a chance at making a specialty dessert without proving themselves in the trenches first.”
“I’m happy to prove myself in the trenches,” Ethan defended. “And I completely understand that I’ll need to work my way up. But Ms. Cohen, there is no other bakery in the entire world known for their unique and inspired artisanal take on kosher baked goods. The stuff you come up with is genius. It’s brilliant! Sure, I can go back to Paris, or Israel, or Los Angeles, study under some great pastry chefs. But I want to learn from the best. The best is right here in Brooklyn. ...
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