Chapter 4
IVY
The bistro smells like rosemary and desperation.
I push through the front door at eight in the morning, field notebook tucked under one arm, my canvas satchel heavy with samples and soil test results I printed last night.
The dining room is empty except for a single table where someone's left a coffee mug and what looks like a half-sketched menu on butcher paper.
"Hello?"
No answer.
I head toward the kitchen, footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards. The door swings open before I reach it, and a woman with bright purple hair and an apron covered in flour appears, spatula in hand like a weapon.
"We're not open yet."
"I'm Ivy. From the seed program. Rogan invited me to—"
"Oh thank god." She lowers the spatula. "Come in before he burns something else."
She grabs my wrist and hauls me into the kitchen.
It's chaos.
Every surface is covered. Cutting boards stacked beside the sink, still wet. Three pots on the stove at various stages of use, one with something crusted to the bottom. A crate of vegetables near the walk-in, half sorted. Knives scattered across the prep station, some clean, some not.
My eye twitches.
Rogan stands at the center island, chopping onions with alarming speed, his topknot slightly askew and a streak of what might be tomato paste across his jaw. He glances up, grins.
"Ivy. You came."
"You said nine."
"Did I?" He checks the clock, which reads 8:03. "Huh. Lost track."
Maya snorts. "He's been here since five."
"Couldn't sleep." Rogan sweeps the onions into a bowl, wipes his hands on his apron. "Kept thinking about that critic. Two weeks isn't enough time."
"It's plenty of time if you plan." I set my satchel on the only clear corner of counter, pulling out my notebook. "Which is why I'm here. To help you not poison anyone."
"Poison?" Maya's eyebrows shoot up.
"Cross-contamination. Food safety. Ingredient integrity." I flip to the page where I've sketched the basics. "If you're using local produce, you need to know where it's grown, what's near it, how it's handled. One bad batch of greens and you're shut down."
Rogan's grin fades slightly. "I know how to run a kitchen."
"A city kitchen. This is different." I tap my notebook. "Farmers here don't always have commercial certifications. Some use composted manure. Do you know the difference between E. coli risk in spring lettuce versus fall root crops?"
"...no."
"Exactly." I glance around the kitchen again, cataloging. "Where do you store your cleaning supplies?"
"Under the sink."
"Next to food prep surfaces?"
"It's fine. I'm careful."
"Careful isn't a system." I walk to the sink, crouch, and pull open the cabinet. Bleach, degreaser, a bottle of dish soap, and—I hold up a bag of potatoes. "These shouldn't be here."
Maya winces. "I told him."
"They're fine." Rogan crosses his arms. "They're in a bag."
"They're in a cabinet with industrial cleaner. If any of this leaks, you've got contaminated produce." I stand, brushing off my knees. "You need separate storage. Chemicals in the back closet, dry goods on wire racks, produce in ventilated bins."
"Noted." His voice is tight, the charm dimmed.
I hold my phone, snap a photo of the cabinet. "I'm making a checklist. You'll need to fix this before the critic arrives."
"Anything else, Inspector?"
"Yes." I move to the prep station, point at the cutting boards. "Are these color-coded?"
"They're cutting boards."
"That's a no." I pick one up, examine the knife marks. "You need separate boards for meat, vegetables, and ready-to-eat foods. This one's got score marks deep enough to harbor bacteria."
Maya clears her throat. "I tried to tell him that too."
Rogan shoots her a look. "You're on my side."
"I'm on the side of not getting sued." She grins, unbothered. "Ivy's right. This place is a disaster."
"It's functional."
"It's a health code violation waiting to happen." I flip to a new page, start writing. "Cutting boards. Storage. Do you have a thermometer for the walk-in?"
"Somewhere."
"That's a no." I add it to the list. "What about your supplier invoices? Can you trace every ingredient?"
"I've got receipts."
"Where?"
He gestures vaguely at a cardboard box near the office door. "There."
I walk over, flip open the box. Receipts, napkins, a take-out menu, someone's grocery list, and—I hold up a wrinkled envelope—"Is this from three months ago?"
"Probably my aunt's."
"You need a filing system. If the critic asks where your carrots came from, you can't hand her a box of random paper."
Rogan runs a hand over his face, smearing the tomato paste further. "Okay. Point made. I'm a mess. Happy?"
"Not particularly." I close the box, brush off my hands. "But I'm here to help, not judge."
"Could've fooled me."
Maya coughs, badly hiding a laugh.
I ignore her, pull the seed packet from my satchel. "You said you wanted to use these. Let's see if you can actually grow them first."
Rogan's expression shifts, the defensiveness falling away. He reaches for the packet, handles it carefully. "I've got containers. Soil mix from the co-op."
"Show me."
He leads me to the back door, where he's set up a makeshift growing station. Four large containers, decent drainage, a bag of organic potting mix. It's...not terrible.
"When did you do this?"
"Last night. Couldn't sleep, remember?" He opens the soil bag, scoops some into the first container. "Figured I'd start small. Radishes, maybe some herbs."
I crouch beside the containers, test the soil with my fingers. Loose, decent structure. "This'll work. But you need to water correctly. Too much and they'll rot. Too little and they'll bolt."
"Bolt?"
"Go to seed. Makes them bitter." I stand, brush off my hands. "I'll write down the schedule. And you'll need to thin them once they sprout."
"Thin them?"
"Remove some so the others have room to grow." I gather my notebook, sketch a quick diagram. "Like this. You're not keeping all of them."
Rogan leans over my shoulder, studying the drawing. He smells like onions and woodsmoke and something warm I can't name. I shift slightly, putting space between us.
"Got it. Thin, water, don't drown them."
"Essentially." I close the notebook. "Now let's see if you can cook them without ruining everything they represent."
His grin returns, bright and reckless. "Challenge accepted."
An hour later, the kitchen smells completely different.
Butter. Garlic. Something bright and acidic that makes my mouth water despite my best efforts to remain professionally detached.
Rogan works fast, hands moving with a confidence that wasn't there when I was interrogating him about storage. He's seared the radishes I brought—French breakfast radishes, mild and crisp—in a hot pan with butter and garlic, then deglazed with white wine and a splash of lemon juice.
"Taste." He holds out a spoon.
I hesitate. "I'm not a food critic."
"You're a person with taste buds. Try it."
I take the spoon. The radish is tender but still has bite, the bitterness mellowed by butter and brightened by acid. It's...good. Better than good.
"Not bad."
"High praise from Ivy Hale." He plates three radishes on a small dish, arranges them with a scattering of microgreens Maya produced from somewhere. Then he reaches for a squeeze bottle and starts drawing.
Oh no.
"What are you doing?"
"Plating." He draws a swoosh of sauce across the plate, adds three dots, then a drizzle that's definitely unnecessary.
"Stop."
"Almost done." He adds a final flourish, steps back to admire his work.
The radishes, which were perfectly fine on their own, now look like they've been attacked by an over-caffeinated artist. The sauce swooshes conflict with the greens. The dots are uneven. There's a smear near the rim that makes my organizational instincts scream.
"You ruined it."
"I elevated it."
"You made it look like a child's art project."
Maya snickers from her station. "She's not wrong."
Rogan picks up the plate, tilts it so the light catches the sauce. "It's got movement. Energy."
"It's got a mess." I pull my phone out, snap a photo. "This is what happens when you prioritize theater over clarity."
"Food is theater."
"Food is nourishment."
"It's both." He sets the plate down, crosses his arms. "You can't tell me this doesn't taste better because the plating's bold."
"I can absolutely tell you that." I grasp a fork, spear one of the radishes, take a bite. The flavor is still there, still good, but now I'm distracted by the visual chaos. "The dish is fighting itself."
"You're impossible."
"I'm practical." I set down the fork. "If you serve this to the critic, she's going to think you're trying too hard."
Rogan stares at the plate, jaw tight. Then, surprisingly, he laughs. "Okay. Fair. What would you do?"
I scoot the plate toward me, scrape off the excess sauce with the side of a spoon. Remove two of the three dots. Rearrange the greens so they're not competing with the radishes. When I'm done, it's simpler. Cleaner. The radishes are the star, not the decoration.
"There." I step back, smoothing my hands against my apron. The plate sits between us now with clean lines, deliberate placement, everything balanced so the eye knows exactly where to land first.
Rogan studies it with his head tilted slightly, that scar along his jaw catching the kitchen light. His fingers drum once on the countertop before he exhales sharply through his nose. "Huh."
"Huh what?" I brace for another argument, already reaching for my notebook out of habit.
He shrugs, but there's a grudging respect in the way his shoulders loosen. "It's better."
Maya leans over from her station, wiping her hands on her apron before peering at the plate. A slow grin spreads across her face. "Yeah," she says, nudging Rogan with her elbow. "Less chaotic. Almost like Ivy knows what she's doing."
Rogan rolls his eyes, but he doesn't argue.
"I do chaos well," Rogan mutters, but he's smiling.