Second Chance at Neap & Spring

1. Vivienne

CHAPTER ONE

Vivienne

The sun is melting into the Pacific like butter on a hot pan.

It’s all golden and beautiful and completely wasted on me because I’m approximately thirty seconds from falling asleep at the wheel.

I grip the steering wheel of my car, knuckles white, my fourth cup of gas-station coffee slowly going cold in the cup holder next to me.

Ten hours. Ten long hours I’ve driven straight from San Diego, the hum of the engine and the rhythmic sway of the road my only companions. Somewhere around hour seven, I could swear I had a full conversation with a podcast host who obviously couldn’t hear me.

San Diego to wherever the hell the investors are sending me now.

I’d just finished six intense weeks of turning a failing farm-to-table bistro into something that wouldn’t make the owner’s investment group physically recoil during quarterly reviews.

They threw me a “thanks for saving our asses” dinner on my last night there — perfectly seared salmon paired with a wine that actually made sense, accompanied by approximately forty-seven speeches about “innovative solutions” and “sustainable growth models.” I smiled through all of it, nodding at the right moments while mentally composing my packing list.

I was back at the hotel by midnight, finishing the last of my handoff notes for the bistro.

By 3 a.m., I’d packed everything I owned into a large suitcase and a duffel bag.

I lay down after that, staring at the ceiling of yet another dingy hotel while the AC hummed and the city stayed stubbornly awake outside my window.

By 8 a.m., I gave up on sleep and got on the road.

Just another day in the life of a consultant who doesn’t take breaks between gigs. I don’t go home to my parents’ place in Chicago and sleep in my childhood bedroom for a week like a normal person. I don’t decompress. I certainly don’t take vacations. I just point my car in a new direction and go.

The file for my next job sits in my passenger seat, still sealed in its manila envelope like a ticking time bomb.

It arrived by courier three days ago, marked CONFIDENTIAL in aggressive red ink, accompanied by a terse email with a subject line written entirely in capital letters: NEAP & SPRING CONSULTATION MATERIALS - URGENT CONFIDENTIAL.

I’d skimmed the email while standing in line at a tiny cafe. Neap & Spring is a coastal restaurant, and I have six months to turn it around. It has a decent budget, but vague phrases like “last chance” popped up more than once in the email, which usually means someone’s panicking.

I replied I’m in before the barista even called my name.

I haven’t opened the file since. I haven’t looked at the financials or the menu. I haven’t thought about the staff roster or the reviews. I haven’t even googled the restaurant, which is either confidence or stupidity. The line between the two gets blurrier every day.

I’ll read it tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Whenever I finally manage to find where I’m staying.

My GPS says ten minutes, which feels like a lie because I’ve been driving along this breathtaking coastline for what feels like hours.

I missed the town sign about fifteen miles back.

I was too busy trying to remember if the initial investor call is on Tuesday or Thursday this week. And also — what day even is it?

The road curves and dips, hugging cliffs that drop straight into the ocean.

The Northern California coast can swallow you whole if you’re not careful.

Each turn requires focus I’m not sure I have anymore.

My neck aches. My lower back has filed a formal complaint with my upper back, and my hands have been locked around this wheel so long I’ve forgotten what they feel like unclenched.

Suddenly, a deer explodes out of the fog directly in front of me. It’s massive, and it just stops and stands there, frozen in the middle of my lane, eyes catching my headlights in an eerie green glow.

My heart stops, and I jerk the wheel left. The brakes scream as I slam them, the car fishtailing. The tires catch gravel, and for one terrible second, the car slides toward the shoulder and the cliff beyond it. I overcorrect right, and the deer bolts into the trees, white tail flashing.

The car steadies as I pull myself back onto the road.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, my hands shaking now, adrenaline flooding my system.

I slow down. Way down. Twenty-five in a forty-five zone. I don’t care if I look like someone’s grandmother.

My heart is still racing as I inch down the road. The fog is pressing in on all sides, making the entire world feel small and claustrophobic.

And then, the road curves again, and the town reveals itself gradually.

Weathered docks rest in the water while old fishing boats bob in the harbor.

There’s a lighthouse in the distance, white and red striped, the paint peeling in a way that feels more charming than neglected.

Old brick buildings line what I assume is the main street, their faces painted in muted sage green, dusty blue, and weathered gray.

They look like they’ve survived a century of storms and now house coffee shops and galleries with hand-painted signs, advertising things like Fresh Catch Daily, Nautical Antiques, and Coffee That Doesn’t Suck.

I like this place already.

But there’s something about it that makes a faint ache settle behind my sternum in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.

It feels familiar.

Which is impossible because I’ve never been here. I’d remember this tiny coastal town. I remember every town I’ve worked in and every restaurant I’ve saved.

Maybe it’s just the exhaustion playing tricks on me. Everything feels familiar when you haven’t slept in nearly a day and your entire diet has been coffee and a KIND bar you found in your glove compartment.

“In five-hundred feet, turn right onto Harbor Street,” my GPS announces.

I signal even though there’s not a single car behind me. My shoulders ache. My eyes burn. There’s a coffee stain on my white button-down, and my hair is still in the same messy bun I twisted it into at a gas station eight hours ago.

God, I need a shower. And sleep.

I slow to a crawl in front of a small cottage that looks like it was pulled straight from a coastal living magazine and placed right here on the edge of the water.

Weathered blue shingles, white shutters, and a front porch with two rocking chairs facing the ocean greet me.

There’s a small garden out front that’s mostly lavender and wild grasses.

String lights are draped along the porch railing.

It’s perfect and aggressively charming. It looks like the type of place that makes you want to drink tea and read novels and pretend you have your life together.

I kill the engine, and the silence rushes in immediately. Broken only by the sound of waves crashing and the distant clang of wind chimes from somewhere down the street.

For a moment, I just sit there, hands still on the wheel. The file is still sitting beside me, unopened and full of whatever disaster I’ve just driven ten hours to fix.

My whole body feels stiff and cramped. I’ve been folded into this car for so long I’ve forgotten how to be a person who stands upright.

I open the door and step out onto the gravel driveway, and my legs nearly buckle. I catch myself on the car door, gripping the frame until the feeling comes back to my knees. When I finally stand fully, my spine cracks in three places. It’s the best thing I’ve felt all day.

I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders, feeling each vertebra protest and then release. The ocean air hits me full in the face. It’s cold enough to make my eyes water, and I breathe it in deep, trying to clear my head.

Twenty restaurants in five years. I never spend more than three months in one place. I go in, fix it, and leave before anyone can get too comfortable with me being there. Six months is the longest I’ve ever been given. I’m not sure if that means they have more faith in this one, or less.

Either way, it’s one more chance to prove I know what I’m doing.

I can do this. I’m good at this. This is literally the only thing I am good at anymore.

I reach into the backseat for my duffel bag, and it catches on the seatbelt. I have to work it free, the strap twisting in my grip as I rip it from the car. My eyes land on the manila envelope still sitting in the passenger seat, but I leave it where it is.

I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Tonight, I’m going to take the world’s longest shower, order takeout — if this tiny coastal town even has takeout this late — and not think about restaurants or consultations or how good the shower at my last rental was and how much I’m already mourning it.

The front door is unlocked, which should probably concern me, but I’m too tired to care. When I push it open, I’m hit with the smell of lavender and something warm and sweet that my exhausted brain insists is cookies.

I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click, shutting out the sound of the ocean.

The main room is small but layered with charm you can’t buy at a generic furniture store. Exposed beams stretch across the ceiling. The walls are whitewashed shiplap, covered in vintage botanical prints in mismatched frames and old nautical maps.

A blue velvet couch sits beneath the front window, its fabric faded in places, piled with what I can only describe as an excessive number of throw pillows, all in shades of cream, seafoam, and faded indigo.