Chapter 5
MEGHAN
T he next morning, the dock smelled like salt and diesel and possibility.
Sunlight hadn’t fully cracked the horizon yet, but the boats were already in—muffled shouts in Gullah, shoes on wet wood, gloved hands hauling up bins of fresh catch.
I wore black. Usually did. Linen pants, tank top, hair knotted at the base of my neck, dark glasses hiding the circles under my eyes.
Finn was beside me in a navy tee and cargo shorts, clipboard in hand. He didn’t need it—we both had the day’s list memorized—but it gave him something to hold, something to scribble on when he got bored.
“You sure about the snapper?” he asked, nodding toward a bin being unloaded at the next boat.
“Only if the eyes are glass-clear and the gills aren’t the color of regret,” I said.
He huffed a laugh, but I didn’t smile. I wasn’t here to banter. I was here to source perfection.
The boat we’d been waiting on had just tied off—a smaller rig captained by an older Black man with shoulders like steel beams and a weathered face that didn’t waste expressions. He gave me a curt nod as we approached.
“Morning, Miss Delaney,” he said.
“Captain Hodges.”
“Stripers came in good this run. A few amberjack, too. One halibut you’re gonna want to see.”
I nodded, stepping closer as the bins were pried open.
The smell was brine and blood and something elemental. The fish glistened, scales iridescent in the low light, ice steaming faintly in the humidity. I crouched, reached in barehanded, and gently tilted the halibut’s head to inspect the eyes.
Clear. Bright. No clouding.
Perfect.
I nodded once and stood. “We’ll take it. The stripers too. I want the amberjack filleted dockside. Heads stay with me.”
Captain Hodges grunted approval and started shouting instructions to his deckhands.
Finn scribbled something onto his clipboard. “You thinking crudo or smoked?”
“Neither. Charcoal-seared. Light cure. That citrus liqueur we finished blending last week. Micro shiso, pickled mustard seed, and a dot of yuzu foam.”
His brows lifted. “That’s … restrained. For you.”
“It’s clean,” I said. “Sharp. Minimal.”
“Michelin bait.”
Exactly.
We walked further down the dock while the fish were prepped. I watched the men work, listened to the sound of knives on steel and rubber boots on wet planks. There was something satisfying about it. Raw. Unfiltered. Honest.
But it wasn’t enough.
I turned to Finn. “We’re doing everything right. The sourcing. The plates. The story. But none of it matters if they don’t know we exist.”
“They know.”
“They don’t,” I said flatly. “We’re not in a rated city. They’re not sending inspectors. Not officially.”
“Unofficially?”
I paused. “That’s the window. We get them curious enough, and someone will come. Quietly. Anonymous. That’s how it works.”
Finn leaned his elbows on the dock rail, staring out at the water. “So, what? We just start courting journalists now? That’s not your style.”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “But it might have to be.”
He looked over at me, sun catching the green in his eyes. “You can’t stay invisible and get a star, Meg.”
I sighed. “I don’t want press. I want the right people whispering my name.”
“That’s still attention.”
“I know.”
“And attention means vulnerability.”
That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? I wanted the Guide to see me. To recognize my work. But I didn’t want to perform. I didn’t want to open my world to food bloggers or influencers or PR people with curated Instagram aesthetics.
I wanted reverence, not popularity.
“They need to hear about us from insiders,” I said. “Chefs they already trust. Critics who speak the language. Not people who chase likes.”
He nodded slowly. “So, who’s on the list?”
“I’ve got feelers out with Lienhardt. She used to assist an inspector. Now she’s at Esquire doing trend pieces. She has reach.”
“She also has a grudge.”
“Not against me.”
“You sure?”
I arched a brow. “Are you trying to rattle me or help me?”
Finn raised both hands in mock surrender. “Helping. I swear.”
We walked back toward the bins. The deckhands were loading the halibut into a cooler. I nodded my approval and turned to sign the invoice.
As I handed it back, Finn gave me a sideways glance.
“What was that about last night?”
I paused. “What do you mean?”
“The note. I’m coming for dinner .”
My heart thudded once. “You saw that?”
“Yeah, and I saw the way you didn’t mention it.”
I hesitated. Then: “It was just … there. No name. No number. No return address. Just one line.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“You sure about that?”
I crossed my arms. “I told you. It didn’t say anything.”
Finn was quiet for a beat. Then he asked, “Can I see it?”
I nodded. “It’s in my office. On my desk.”
He tilted his head. “You don’t think it’s a threat?”
“No. If it were, I’d feel it.”
Finn studied me for a second longer, then looked back at the boats like they might offer a simpler truth. “What, then? Secret admirer? Fan letter?”
I shook my head. “Who would even write that? I’m not that charming.”
He gave me a crooked smile. “You’re charming when you’re not trying to flay someone with a glance.”
I snorted. “So, basically never.”
He tapped his clipboard against his thigh. “Could’ve been anyone, Meg. A diner who didn’t introduce themselves. A chef passing through town. Someone testing the waters.”
“A vendor trying to curry favor,” I added.
“Or a rival trying to psych you out.”
I raised a brow. “They’d have to know how.”
He laughed softly. “Fair point.”
The truth was—I didn’t know what the note meant. “I guess it could’ve been anything,” I said. “No way to know unless they show up again.”
“Unless they already have,” Finn offered.
I glanced sideways at him.
He grinned. “Just saying. The mystery man near the benches. The note. The timing. Could be connected.”
“Or coincidence.”
“Do you believe in coincidence?”
“No,” I said, too fast. “Not anymore.”
Finn didn’t say anything right away, just kept watching me like he always did—like I was a puzzle he already knew how to solve but was still trying to work out for fun.
I exhaled through my nose. “You know, all this watching me … checking up on me … it’s starting to feel a little creepy.”
He smirked. “It’s not creepy. It’s concerned.”
“Same thing, if you squint.”
“I’m not lurking outside your bedroom window, Meg.”
“No, but you always know when I’ve gone walking. When I haven’t eaten. When I’m one espresso shot away from detonating.”
“That’s not creepy,” he said, lifting his chin. “That’s competence.”
I turned toward him, one brow raised. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Look, if I were some random guy, sure. But I work with you. I’ve been here since day one. I know your tells.”
“Exactly. You know too much.”
“That’s on you for letting me stick around.”
I shook my head, but a smile tugged at my mouth, anyway. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”
He grinned. “You love me.”
“I really don’t.”
“Sure you do.”
A deckhand brought over the sealed cooler and set it gently at our feet. I stepped forward, checking the label, the temp reading, the insulation. Everything had to be exact.
“You know I could do this without you,” Finn said casually.
I didn’t look up. “Do what?”
“The dock runs. Inventory. Invoices. Logistics. You don’t have to come down here yourself every time.”
He leaned against a piling, arms crossed, clipboard tucked under one elbow.
The morning sun hit him just right—messy dark blond hair catching threads of gold, skin tanned, green eyes bright and unreadable beneath thick brows.
He had that all-American, could-have-been-a-quarterback look, except he’d traded cleats for kitchen whites and ambition for loyalty.
Hands big enough to carry crates two at a time, gentle enough to handle pate à choux without bruising it.
Solid. Dependable. The kind of man who held a room without realizing it—and never demanded to be seen.
“I have to come.”
“You don’t.”
“But, I do.”
I finally met his eyes, and he shook his head like he’d walked into that one.
“You don’t trust me?” he teased.
“I trust you,” I said, standing straight. “But I don’t trust anyone to be me.”
“Which is the real problem.”
I shrugged. “This is how you get a star. Total immersion. Nothing gets filtered through someone else’s lens.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Finn pulled the cooler handle as we started back up the dock. “You ever think maybe that’s why you don’t date?”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I mean it. Most people leave work at work.”
“My work is my house.”
“My point exactly.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You’re not wrong.”
We passed the edge of the marina where the sun finally breached the horizon. It spilled golden light across the water, hitting the sails and railings like fire. I felt it on my face and let it warm my skin for a moment before answering.
“I’ve dated,” I said.
“Chefs,” he said knowingly.
“Yeah.”
“How’d that go again?”
“You were there.”
“Right,” he said, dragging the word out. “The knife block incident.”
I laughed, an actual laugh, short and sharp. “That wasn’t my fault.”
“He accused you of plating over his sauce.”
“Because I did it better.”
“You told him that.”
“I was being honest.”
Finn looked at me sideways. “You’re like a human Molotov cocktail when it comes to relationships.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. You’ve got, like, one setting: fire.”
“I also have simmer.”
He smirked. “When?”
“When I sleep. Alone.”
He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed on his face.
We reached the back of the lot where our van was parked. He loaded the cooler while I leaned against the side door and looked out at the harbor.
“I’m not looking for a relationship,” I said, quieter now.
“No?”
“I’m not even looking for a date. I just …” I trailed off, then shrugged. “I’d settle for some hot sex with someone who doesn’t talk about food for once.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “That’s your bar?”
“Low, isn’t it?”
“Manageable.”
I grinned. “I’m not hard to please.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again like he’d thought better of whatever he was about to say.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
He turned the key in the van, the engine coughing to life. “Just thinking that you talk like you want casual, but you don’t do anything halfway.”
I pulled my seatbelt across my chest. “You’re not wrong.”
“Never am.”
“You think I’d scare him off?”
“Who?”
“The man from the Battery.”
Finn shifted into drive, his eyes steady on the road. “Only if he scares easy.”
“Somehow, I don’t think he does. I didn’t get that vibe.”
“Then he’s already halfway yours.”
That made something twist in my stomach. Hope or hunger—I couldn’t tell the difference.
I stared out the window, Charleston’s early-morning streets sliding past, brick and wrought iron bathed in rising gold. My pulse beat a little faster, and I hated how easily I let it. Because I did this. I always did this.
I got something in my head—some idea, some flicker of possibility—and I let it grow wild.
I fed it details, imagined conversations, filled in all the blanks with assumptions that felt like facts.
I built whole stories out of scraps. Scenarios where this stranger on the Battery wasn’t just watching me—he was watching out for me.
Where the note wasn’t just a curiosity, but a breadcrumb. A hint. A beginning.
And I clung to it like it meant something. Like it had already happened.
Finn glanced sideways. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing. Where you spiral into a full-blown novella inside your head and cast yourself as the leading lady.”
I scowled. “I’m not casting anything.”
“Please. You’ve already decided he’s some secret power player with a dark past who came to Charleston on a mission to fall for a chef with control issues.”
“He could be,” I said defensively. “You don’t know.”
“I don’t,” he agreed, lips twitching. “But I also don’t build conspiracy theories out of recycled parchment and a brooding glance.”
I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t just a glance. It was a moment. And I’m not building anything. I’m just … curious.”
“Right. Curious. The way a hawk is curious about a rabbit.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re being an ass.”
He laughed. “I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being cynical.”
“I’m being the friend who remembers the last time you did this. And the time before that. And—let me check—yep, the time before that.”
“Okay, fine. I get excited.”
“You get invested,” he said, more gently now. “You assign meaning to things before you know if they mean anything.”
I stayed quiet for a beat. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.
“I just … I need something,” I admitted finally. “Something new. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s already been lived a thousand times. And if that guy, that note—if it’s nothing, fine. But what if it’s not?”
Finn tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “Then you’ll know soon enough. Just don’t rewrite your whole future based on a guy who might’ve just been checking out your legs.”
I snorted. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“You have no romance in your soul.”
“I have plenty. I just reserve it for people who sign their notes and use actual words.”
I shot him a look. “That’s rich coming from the guy who once flirted with our linen vendor using emoji-only texts.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. Those laundry bags didn’t fold themselves.”
Despite myself, I smiled. Just a little.
Because yeah—I got carried away sometimes. I built castles on fog. But there was something about possibility that felt better than certainty. Something about not knowing that left room to dream.
And wasn’t that the same reason I chased the star?
It wasn’t just about the plate. It was never just about the plate.
It was about chasing something just out of reach.
About believing—really believing—that excellence could be recognized, even if the system said it couldn’t.
That maybe, just maybe, if I honed every edge and sharpened every detail, someone would notice. Someone who mattered.
The Michelin Guide didn’t operate in Charleston.
That was a fact. But I still checked my email like an inspector might’ve found a back door into the city.
Still polished every last damn garnish like it might tip the scales.
Still felt a buzz in my chest whenever a reservation came through with a New York or Paris zip code.
It was delusional, probably.
But if I was going to be obsessive about something—if I was going to lose sleep and make lists and chase ghosts—then let it be this. Let it be something worthy.
So, what if I projected too much meaning onto strangers and secrets and scribbled notes? I’d rather dream too big than shrink to fit the version of reality someone else handed me.
The castle might be fog.
But it was mine.