Chapter 7 Beneath Her Crust, a Flame

The air in Brick & Basil smelled sweeter than usual.

Riley Quinn stood at the prep counter, biting the edge of her thumb and staring at a fresh recipe card: Fig + Ricotta + Hot Honey + Crushed Pistachio. She'd labeled it the Hope Pie. Sweet, savory, soft, and packed with opposing flavors. It wasn't on the menu-yet. Just something born from restlessness.

She wiped her hands on a striped towel and glanced at the front window. Outside, Brooklyn thrummed with early spring: soft sun, sharp breeze, and couples trailing laughter as they passed by. One girl pointed through the glass and said something to her mom. Riley smiled faintly. Even now, the shop pulled curiosity like a magnet.

Ariana's hoodie still hung on the wall peg by the office door, the hem flecked with tomato paste from last week's experimental garlic pie. Riley hadn't washed it. The scent still held-a mix of her perfume and sharp basil. It felt personal.

She glanced at the time. Ariana was late.

Which wasn't unusual anymore. Interviews. Philanthropy lunches. The full rollout of Urban Kindred had tugged Ariana in a thousand directions. But tonight was supposed to be theirs: a quiet booth, shared wine, maybe bad jokes, and the kind of heart talk that didn't need cameras.

And Riley had news.

At 7:32, Ariana arrived-with wind in her hair and a tote full of half-eaten pastries.

"A bakery pop-up hijacked my entire block," she said, dropping the bag on the counter. "They flung croissants at me."

Riley laughed and pulled out a cinnamon bun that looked like it had survived a car chase. "This is a crime scene."

"They called it rustic."

They moved to the corner booth, that sacred nook under the soft jazz speaker and lazy string lights. The table still bore a stain from a spilled soda five days ago. Riley hadn't scrubbed it. She liked things that lingered.

Ariana kicked off her boots. Riley poured wine.

"I missed this," Ariana said. "Just us. Just quiet."

"You were gone two days."

"Two long days."

Riley twisted the stem of her wine glass. "So... I have news."

Ariana leaned forward. "Spicy or sweet?"

"Sweet," Riley said, "but complicated."

A beat.

"I applied to the New York Culinary Collective."

Ariana's brows arched. "Wait. That elite incubator thing? I thought you said-"

"I said I wasn't ready. But I'm tired of waiting for perfect timing. I submitted a video. A recipe. And... a letter."

"What did the letter say?"

"That I wanted to teach people how to tell stories through crust."

Ariana blinked, then reached for Riley's hand. "You're going to shake up their whole grid."

Riley smiled-nervous, flickering. "There's more."

Ariana sat straighter.

"They asked me to bring a business partner."

A pause.

Riley inhaled slowly. "They want us. Me and you. Brick & Basil and whatever magic you've built."

Ariana stared. "I didn't expect that."

"Neither did I."

And that was the twist.

They sat in silence for a long stretch. Just the sound of ice shifting in the wine bucket and the murmur of pizza crust sizzling in the oven.

Riley watched Ariana closely. Her expression was unreadable-somewhere between curiosity and caution.

"They see the story we've built," Riley said quietly. "That's good, right?"

Ariana shifted, fingers tapping the stem of her glass. "It's amazing. But... also public. Again."

"I know."

"Pitching together means exposure. Even more than now."

"They'll want interviews. Maybe appearances."

"They'll dissect us."

"Do we care?"

Ariana finally looked up.

"I care about us. I don't care about them."

Riley reached across the table. Their fingers met in a soft press.

"Let's do it," Ariana whispered.

Riley exhaled, heart expanding.

The following days were whirlwinds.

The Collective sent a formal invitation: one presentation slot, one film crew to document the journey. Riley scrubbed every tile until her arms ached. Ariana reorganized inventory with the intensity of a woman managing a hedge fund. They painted a wall light terracotta. Riley added mismatched frames with menu doodles and old food photos. Ariana hung one of Riley's aprons like it was art.

They worked late. Ate burnt crusts. Fell asleep in the office couch twice.

Ariana started leaving voice notes instead of texts:

"Today I saw a pizza place trying to copy your sweet-and-sour sauce. I nearly walked in and slapped the bottle out of their hand."

Riley replied by sending a photo of a dough ball shaped like a heart.

When the film crew arrived, the shop glowed.

String lights twinkled. Soft jazz played. The ovens were hot, but not rushed.

They filmed Riley tossing dough and cracking jokes about "heart flour." Ariana answered emails while sipping espresso, one leg tucked beneath her.

In one scene, Riley forgot a pie in the oven. Smoke billowed. She cursed.

Ariana rushed in, fanning the air with a pizza peel.

"Keep that," the director laughed. "It's gold."

Riley blushed. Ariana reached over and kissed her temple.

The director melted.

After the shoot, they sat in silence-feet sore, hair flour-coated, adrenaline fading.

"Do you think we showed them who we are?" Riley asked.

Ariana leaned into her shoulder. "I think we reminded ourselves."

Two weeks later, the final video aired at the Collective's launch.

Projected onto a massive screen, their story unfolded in light and laughter. Riley told tales with garlic in her hands. Ariana spoke about trust, risk, and flavor as metaphor. Their warmth was undeniable.

At the end, Riley said: "Love and dough both need time. But when they rise, it's magic."

The crowd erupted.

They didn't win the top funding.

But the director approached afterward with a quiet smile and said, "We didn't pick you... because you're already everything we hope to build."

Then handed Riley a card. A teaching grant. An offer to lead a masterclass called Crust + Connection.

Riley stared.

Ariana took the card, kissed her knuckles, and whispered, "Looks like we're not just rising. We're feeding something bigger."

Back in the shop, it was business as usual-with layers.

They added two new pies to the menu: Smoke & Sugar and Crushed Honey Dreams. Customers wrote notes on napkins and pinned them to the cork wall. One read:

"Your love tastes like fig jam and bravery."

They cried when they read it.

Ariana started baking on Tuesdays-badly, comically, but with joy. Riley taught her how to shape crust with both hands. Ariana taught Riley how to draft a five-year plan that wasn't soul-sucking.

They fell into sync again.

Quiet.

Certain.

And then, one evening, an envelope arrived.

No stamp.

No return address.

Inside: a recipe card.

In Riley's grandmother's handwriting.

Fig + Ricotta + Hot Honey + Crushed Pistachio.

The exact pie Riley had made for the film.

She stared at the card, then at Ariana.

"She used to say the best stories show up before you're ready."

They hung it beside the oven.

And baked two more pies.