Chapter 34 #2
Silence—then a cautious, “Which kind of promoting? The kind with a new title and the same pay? Or the kind where I cry and you make fun of me?”
“The kind where you get a choice,” I said.
“Head chef at Promenade, full creative control within the vision we’ve built.
Or—” I swallowed a lump “—be my right hand on the creative side and oversee the entire group as we expand. That includes revamping Alastair’s place and building Meggie’s on Folly Beach. ”
Finn didn’t answer. I pictured him blinking hard at the prep table, Carly and Alba pretending not to listen and failing, Michael—my stomach twinged and righted—sweeping up salt he’d poured too fast.
Finally: “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” I said. “I’m stepping back. Not out. But I’m done letting this place eat me whole.”
A breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob collided. “You’re going to make me cry in front of the microplanes.”
“Take the day to think,” I said, softer. “We’ll talk tonight.”
“I don’t need the day,” he said, voice steadying. “I want the group. I want to be the wall you lean on while you make weird, brilliant food.”
I laughed, tears threatening, anyway. “Deal. We’ll structure it so the head chefs report to you and me. I’m going to travel, but you’ll have final say when I’m halfway up a mountain arguing with a cheesemaker who refuses to use a thermometer.”
“God, I love when you talk dirty,” he said. Then, gentler: “I’m proud of you, Meg.”
“Me, too,” I said, and ended the call before I cried on Dominion Hall’s white sheets.
Caleb took the phone, set it aside, and pressed a kiss to the corner of my eye like he could seal the emotion back in. “That ‘me too’ sounded good,” he said.
“It felt good,” I admitted. “Like breathing after a long time under.”
We drifted through logistics, the way you do when the big decisions are made and the details become a pleasure instead of a burden.
I’d work with Ryker on a meeting at the bank. Atlas would loop in their finance team to model the acquisitions and the new build. Marcus would lean on the necessary levers to make sure Alastair kept his word to vanish.
Dean and Trish would get the call later; I could already hear Trish’s delighted gasp and Dean’s gruff, “About time.”
“What about the staff?” Caleb asked.
“Carly steps up,” I said. “She’s quiet until she’s not, and when she’s not, she’s right.
Alba keeps the front sharp. We’ll hire a head chef Finn respects.
Michael …” I let the name sit, taste the copper, then decide.
“Michael finishes the week. Then he’s done.
Severance, a clean letter that only says what’s true. No more. No less.”
Caleb’s jaw ticked. “You’re generous.”
“I’m strategic,” I said. “I want him out without noise. Let him vanish like Alastair. I don’t want to think about either of them again unless it’s a footnote in our success story.”
He nodded, and I knew he’d keep his teeth sheathed because I’d asked. I also knew if either of those men set a toe on my shadow again, Caleb would handle it with that precision I’d felt like a lightning strike, and I didn’t know whether it humbled me or thrilled me more.
He rolled onto his back and tugged me half on top of him, my cheek finding the warm plane of his chest. His heartbeat thudded slow under my ear, steady as a drumline.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured into my hair. “I’ll move heaven and earth to keep you safe. But I’m not here to build you a cage.”
“I know,” I said. “And I meant what I said, too. I’m done living like penance is a plan.”
He tipped my chin up with his knuckles, studying me like he was memorizing this version—calmer, clearer, still mine. “Tell me something about Meggie’s,” he said, “the future one. The first thing you’ll decide that has nothing to do with guilt.”
“The floor,” I said immediately, surprising both of us.
“Not tile. Wood. Something that creaks when it’s quiet and sings when it’s full.
I want a bar that’s sticky on summer nights because too many drinks got set down in a hurry, and a porch where Dean can sit and pretend he hates people while he watches the ocean.
I want a bell by the kitchen door, and when service starts, we’ll ring it twice and one.
” I tapped his sternum gently—tap, tap—pause—tap. “I’m here. Keep going.”
His eyes went dark with something that lived a few levels below words. He matched the rhythm on my lower back, two fingers knocking softly. “Always.”
The room felt warmer. Or maybe that was just me melting into him. The sheet slid lower; my thigh hooked over his hip; his hand found the small of my back like it had been built to live there.
“Breakfast in the atrium?” he asked, voice low.
“In a minute,” I said, and kissed him like ‘a minute’ meant whenever I decided the world could have us back.
The kiss was unhurried, a mapping rather than a raid.
His mouth was heat and a promise I could taste.
His hand slid up my spine, fingers threading into my hair; my palm cupped his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against skin.
The need between us didn’t spike; it rose like the tide—inevitable, powerful, certain.
When he rolled, pinning me with the kind of care you offer a thing you revere, the soft sound I made was recognition: mine.