3. Callum #2
For a while, we work in the comfortable quiet that comes from three years of working side by side.
Roman starts on the fennel while I move on to the brown butter sauce.
I watch the butter melt in the pan, tilting it so it coats the bottom evenly.
The milk solids start to separate, turning golden, and I breathe in that nutty, caramelized smell that never gets old.
The restaurant is waking up around us. I can hear the dishwasher arrive. The clang of sheet trays being pulled from the racks. Someone turns on music in the front, probably Frannie getting the dining room ready.
And for just a moment, I let myself forget about the consultant and the investors. The numbers that don’t add up and the fact that I’m one bad month away from losing everything.
For just a moment, it’s just me and my kitchen and the smell of brown butter.
Several hours later, I’m elbow-deep in an argument about garnish with Roman when Cora swoops over from her station like a small tornado.
“Guys, you have to try this,” Cora says, already moving.
She’s got three plates lined up on her arm, each one holding what looks like a deconstructed lemon meringue situation.
Her dark hair is already escaping from her braids, and there’s a smudge of something white on her cheek.
“I’m thinking of this for this month’s dessert special.
Lemon curd, burnt meringue, olive oil cake crumble. ”
“Is that sea salt?” Roman asks, leaning in.
“Fleur de sel. And before you say anything —”
“I love it.” Roman throws a towel over his shoulder, already grinning.
“You haven’t even tried it yet.”
“I don’t need to. I know it’s gonna be good.”
I pick up a spoon and take a bite. The lemon curd is tart and silky.
The meringue has that perfect bitter-sweet char.
And the olive oil cake underneath cuts through with a richness you don’t see coming.
“It’s good,” I admit, which is the highest praise I give before noon. “Maybe a little more salt?”
Cora’s already grinning when she turns back toward her station.
The kitchen doors slam open again, and this time Frannie practically bounces in, her red hair a wild halo around her face. She’s wearing a black dress that’s probably too nice for a Monday lunch shift, and there’s a barely contained energy about her that makes me tired just looking at her.
“The consultant is here!” she announces like she’s delivering news about a celebrity sighting.
My stomach drops.
The spoon is suddenly too heavy in my hand. I set it down on the counter with more care than necessary and glance at my watch.
9:58 a.m.
Shit.
Right. The consultant.
I’d managed to forget about it for the last — I check my watch again — four hours. A personal record.
“Already?” Roman sets down his spoon, watching me carefully. “I thought they weren’t coming until ten?”
“It is ten,” Frannie says. “Well, almost. She’s early. Very punctual. Very …” She waves her hand in a way that I think is supposed to mean something. “Professional-looking.”
“She?” I ask. My voice sounds normal. That’s good.
“Yep. Showed up in an expensive car, nice blazer, the whole thing. She’s standing in the dining room right now looking around like she’s taking notes in her head.” Frannie leans against the counter, and I notice the way Roman immediately straightens up and runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Did she say anything?” I ask, buying myself time. My hands find a towel and I wipe them even though they’re not dirty.
“Just that she’s here for the ten o’clock consultation.” Frannie tilts her head, studying me. “You okay, Cal? You look —”
“I’m fine.”
“You look kind of pale.”
“I’m always pale. It’s called being inside a kitchen for eighteen hours a day.”
Roman snorts. “You want me to go out there? I can do the intro thing.”
“No.” I untie my apron and ball it up before tossing it on the counter.
My chef’s whites are on. I put them on an hour ago when the morning crew arrived.
I tug at the collar, suddenly aware of how hot it is back here.
The kitchen is always hot, but right now it feels like the walls are closing in. “I’ll handle it.”
“You sure?” Roman asks. He knows I don’t want to do this. He knows I’ve been dreading it since the investors first mentioned bringing someone in.
But we don’t have a choice. The numbers don’t lie, though I’ve been lying to myself for months thinking I could fix this on my own.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I grab a towel and wipe my hands again. “Just — keep prepping. I’ll be back in a few.”
Frannie pushes off the counter and heads toward the door, but not before shooting Roman a smile that makes him look like he’s been hit in the head with a pan. “She seems nice,” she calls over her shoulder. “Professional. Put-together. Probably going to tell you everything you’re doing wrong.”
“Thanks for that, Fran.”
“Anytime!”
The doors swing shut behind her, and it’s just me, Roman, and Cora in the kitchen.
“You want us to come with?” Cora offers.
“No. Stay here. Finish the dessert. I …” I take a breath and straighten my shoulders. My hands are at my sides and I realize I’m making fists. I force them to relax. “I’ll deal with this.”
Roman gives me a look that I pretend not to see, and I push through the kitchen doors before he can say anything encouraging or supportive or any of that shit that’ll make this worse.
The few steps between the kitchen and dining room door feel longer than they should.
My boots are heavy on the tile. I can hear my own breathing and feel my pulse in my throat. This is stupid. It’s just a consultant. Just someone here to do a job. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they think.
Except it does matter. Because this is my restaurant. My dream. The thing I’ve poured everything into for three years, and some stranger is about to walk through it and tell me I’ve fucked it all up.
I stop just before the doors to the dining room, one hand raised to push through.
I could turn around. I could send Roman out there. I could —
No.
I push through.
The dining room is quiet. We don’t open for another two hours, so it’s just the empty tables, the chairs still upside-down on half of them from last night’s close, the morning light pouring through the windows.
And standing in the middle of it all, back to me, is a woman.
She’s looking out at the ocean, but I can see her profile. Dark hair pulled back, blazer that probably cost more than my rent, an iPad tucked under one arm. She’s completely still, just staring out at the water like she’s trying to memorize it.
I stop dead in my tracks in the middle of the doorway.
I don’t know what it is. The way she’s standing, maybe. The angle of her shoulders or the tilt of her head. My body clocks it before my brain has the chance to catch up, a recognition I can’t place, like a word sitting just out of reach.
I shake it off.
Consultants. They’re all the same. They show up, judge everything you’ve built, tell you to change the menu and fire half your staff, and turn your passion into something profitable and soulless. I’ve heard the stories. I know how this goes.
I take a breath and put on my best professional face — the one that hides the fact that I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in two years — and start walking toward her.
“You must be the consultant.” It comes out flat and unwelcoming. I don’t fix it.
She turns around slowly.
And my entire world stops.