Chapter 29
The call comes in just after noon.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
I’m standing in the middle of the space that’s supposed to become Northern Flame, phone buzzing in my hand, dust floating in the air where sunlight cuts through the front windows.
The place still smells like old wood and something stale I haven’t been able to identify yet.
It’s empty except for me and our contractor, who stepped out ten minutes ago to take his own call.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Chet Harrington.
I haven’t heard from my father since the finale aired.
That’s not unusual. Silence and avoidance have always been his default setting unless he needs me to do something for him. Praise, when it comes, is doled out in rations.
The phone buzzes again, and this time I answer.
“Chet,” I drawl sarcastically, balancing the phone on my shoulder. “To what do I owe this immense pleasure?”
There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough that I wonder if the connection dropped.
“Alexander.”
Same dry greeting as always. If my tone gets under his skin at all, he isn’t letting it show. He almost sounds bored, like we’ll just be discussing a casual business arrangement instead of the last ten weeks of my life and what it means for my future.
“Hey,” I shift my weight and run a finger through the dust collecting on a nearby windowsill just to give me something to do with my hands. “What’s up?”
“I watched the season. Finale included.”
Finally, it’s been out for a couple of weeks at this point.
I let out a breath through my nose. “Yeah?”
“You handled yourself well.”
I nod to myself, knowing he can’t see it. “Thanks.”
Another pause. Papers shuffle faintly on his end. I picture him at his desk at Harrington Group HQ, perfectly organized, pen lined up parallel to the edge, everything in its place.
“You did exactly what I needed you to do.”
I push my free hand through my hair, staring at my reflection in the hazy window. This is about as close to approval as it gets with my father. While we don’t exactly have a close relationship, hearing that I did well hits me square in the chest.
“Even though I didn’t win?”
“Yes.” He says without hesitation. “You won them over just like we needed you to. Viewers, judges, sponsors. The exposure alone—”
“I know,” I cut in sharply, before I can stop myself.
Silence meets me from the other end of the line.
I close my eyes briefly, pressing my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. I just… yeah. I get it.”
There’s a shift in his tone when he speaks again. Not warmer necessarily, because Chet Harrington doesn’t do warm, but it’s far less clipped now than it usually is.
“The opportunity you’ve been looking for is there now,” he says. “If you’re going to move forward with your concept, this is the time.”
My gaze lifts, scanning the space again. The bare walls desperately in need of new paint. The outlines done in painter’s tape on the floor where equipment will go. The skeleton of something that can be really special if I can pull it together.
“I’ve already started,” I admit. “The lease is signed. Plans are in motion.”
“I assumed as much.”
“I’ll need to review your projections. Costs, timelines, staffing, menu concepts—everything.”
It’s more demand than question, but all I can focus on is the fact that this feels a lot like permission. A lot like he’s agreeing to the Harrington Group investing in Julian and my concept.
“Yeah,” I breathe out quickly. “I can send that over.”
Another pause. Shorter this time, but still poignant.
“You have my approval to proceed.”
Finally.
Starting my own restaurant, away from my family’s legacy, has always felt just out of reach. Like there will always be one more step, one more hoop to jump through.
“If you execute this properly, it will position you well for expansion within the next three to five years.”
I huff out a small breath that might pass for a laugh if you’re not paying close attention. “Already planning the second location, eh?”
“You should always be planning ahead.”
“Right.” I clear my throat.
We fall into a brief silence that stretches longer than it should. This is always the awkward part with him. Even when we aren’t at odds, we don’t have much to say.
“You did well,” he says again, like he’s checking a box. Without a doubt, Mom is standing near the desk, coaching him into being more encouraging.
I hum in acknowledgment.
“That will be all.”
The line clicks dead, and I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a second before it goes dark.
That’s it?
No questions about how I’m doing. Nothing beyond the show or the business. Just confirmation that I met expectations. I shake my head. I hadn’t expected anything more, yet a small part of me had hoped for it anyway.
I slip my phone into my pocket and look around the space again, trying to imagine the concept coming together.
You did exactly what I needed you to do.
The words echo, but they don’t sit the same way they used to. A few months ago, that and the official approval of Northern Flame would have been enough. More than enough. Now…
I drag a hand over my jaw and exhale.
“Yeah,” I mutter to the empty room. “Guess I did.”
The rest of the afternoon is a mind-numbing montage of back-and-forth moments with the contractor.
We walk through the layout again, nailing down all the details: equipment placement, ventilation, how the line will flow during service, and what needs to be in place to make that happen.
I nod, ask questions, jot down notes, and make decisions faster than I used to.
It should feel good.
This is what I’ve been working toward. My own place. My own concept. No one looking over my shoulder, no one telling me how to plate a dish or when to adjust a menu. Except for Julian, but we almost always see eye to eye.
Freedom.
Instead, I keep catching myself reaching for my phone.
It happens without thinking. A break in the conversation, a pause while the contractor double-checks a measurement, a second of silence that my brain fills automatically.
My hand goes to my pocket every single time. And every single time, there’s nothing new.
Or there is, and its hours old.
A message I didn’t see because I was busy. A photo I didn’t respond to right away.
Even though nothing’s coming, I check again anyway.
“Alex?”
I look up.
The contractor is watching me, clipboard in hand. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I say, straightening. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
He points to the back corner. “If we shift the prep station here, you’ll have better flow into the line.”
I follow his line of sight, forcing my attention back to the room. “That works.”
We talk through it for another twenty minutes before he wraps up for the day, promising to send over updated plans by morning.
When he leaves, the space goes quiet again.
I stand there for a minute, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside, the distant sound of a door closing somewhere down the block. I drop my head between my shoulders, leaning against the counter.
Then, out of habit, I pull my phone out and a message from Taylor is waiting for me.
My chest tightens as a photo appears on the screen.
Her hand is dusted with flour, clutching a tray of pastries I can’t make out at first. The light is warm—or maybe that’s just how she makes me feel. A smear on her wrist catches my eye. I wonder what it is. Knowing her, it could be anything.
PRETTY GIRL:
burnt my arm twice today
but look how pretty these turned out
Another image comes through, a close-up of one of her pastries cut in half.
I zoom in, taking my time to study it.
Croissants. Perfect layers. Deep golden color. Slight sheen on the surface.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.
I type back before I can overthink it.
ME:
Those look better than anything
I’ve seen all week. Fucking epic!
Three dots appear almost immediately, then disappear and reappear a few times.
I wait for her response.
And wait.
And wait a little bit longer.
Nothing.
“She’s working,” I tell myself out loud before locking my screen and shoving the phone back into my pocket.
?????????
It’s hard to believe the competition ended almost two months ago.
The first month of planning passes in a series of long days and short nights.
Julian and I meet with suppliers and go over budgets. I argue with a designer about materials that don’t make sense for the kind of kitchen I’m building. Julian spends long hours interviewing chefs to build our line for success.
It’s everything I expected. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
And still, there’s this low-level distraction running in the background—I miss her.
Taylor’s messages come in throughout the day.
It’s an eclectic mix of photos and random thoughts that don’t need a response but make me want to give one anyway.
I do my best to answer when I can. Sometimes it’s immediate. Sometimes it’s hours later. But I always do answer, eventually.
By the end of the second month, the shift between us is almost too much to bear.
Where we used to fall into long conversations, back-and-forth without thinking, now it’s broken up. Stretched out over time.
We’re both busy with new routines. New jobs and projects. I tell myself it’s temporary. That it makes sense given all the changes we are both handling right now, and that it will get better once everything is settled.
It has to.
Now halfway into the third month post-competition, I’m starting to split my time between Prism back in Vancouver and Northern Flame’s home in San Francisco.
Tonight, I’m standing outside the restaurant after a fourteen-hour training day, phone in my hand, trying to decide if it’s too late to call her.
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
After ringing a good number of times, it clicks over to voicemail, and I hang up before leaving a message. Blankly, I stare at the screen, willing it to change.
Not even a full minute later, it buzzes, and I answer the call immediately.