4. Callum
CHAPTER FOUR
Callum
Vivienne.
Vivienne.
The name hits me like a blow, and I stumble back a step. My lungs forget how to take in air. My heart is suddenly too loud in my ears.
For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. I’ve finally cracked from the stress and the sleepless nights, and my brain has just decided to project the one person I never thought I’d see again into my failing restaurant at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
But no.
She’s real.
She’s standing right there, ten feet away, and she looks exactly the same except completely different.
Her hair is longer, pulled back in a smooth, professional style.
She’s wearing clothes that actually fit instead of boxy chef’s whites covered in sauce stains.
She’s polished now. Put-together in a way that makes no sense against the girl who used to show up to class with flour in her hair and a smile that made my world tilt.
She’s staring at me like she’s seen a ghost. But she doesn’t look surprised. She doesn’t look shocked. She looks … guilty.
And then it hits me. She would have had a file with my name on the cover page, the restaurant name underneath it. The investors would have sent it the second they signed her. She’s had days — maybe weeks — to see my name and decide what to do with that information.
She knew she was coming to my restaurant. And she came anyway, and she didn’t think to give me a heads up. She didn’t feel obligated to call, or email, or send a fucking carrier pigeon to let me know that my past was about to walk through my door.
The anger hits me like a wave.
My hands clench into fists at my sides. My jaw locks so tight I can feel my teeth grinding. There’s a roaring in my ears that has nothing to do with the ocean outside.
“Callum,” she says, and I flinch. Her voice sounds so small and all wrong. Vivienne’s voice was never small.
My whole body goes rigid. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She takes a step back, her hand tightening on the iPad. “I can explain.”
“Explain what?” I take a step forward. “Why you looked at the file and saw my name and decided to show up anyway?”
“I didn’t —”
“Don’t.” I lock my knees to keep myself from moving closer to her. “Don’t lie to me. You knew. The investors sent you everything. The restaurant name, the location, the owner. My name was on that file, Vivienne.”
Her face goes pale. “Callum, please. Let’s just talk about this.”
“Did you think this would be fun? A trip down memory lane? Surprise! Let’s see how Callum’s doing after five years of complete fucking silence?”
“That’s not —”
“Then what?” I take another step toward her against my will and watch her flinch. I stop and shove my hands in my pockets to hide the shaking. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here?”
“I didn’t think you’d —” She stops and swallows hard. The defensiveness drops out of her face all at once replaced by what looks like relief. Or guilt. Maybe both. “You didn’t know I was coming?”
I let out a laugh that has nothing to do with humor. “If I fucking knew it was you, I would have called the investors myself and demanded someone else. Anyone else. I would have told them to send literally any other consultant on the planet.”
Her chin lifts, just slightly, hurt flashing across her face before she can hide it, and I feel a twist in my chest that I don’t want to acknowledge.
But the rest of me is too angry to care.
“I didn’t look at the file,” I continue.
My voice comes out cold and controlled even though everything inside me is screaming.
“The investors hired someone to come in and tell me everything I’m doing wrong.
I didn’t particularly care who. I figured it didn’t matter because they’d all say the same shit anyway.
“But you —” I stop and try to get my voice under control because Roman and Cora are right behind those kitchen doors, and I don’t need them hearing this.
I turn away from her and walk three steps toward the kitchen, then turn back.
“You knew. You looked at that file, saw my name, and decided to come here anyway.”
“I thought you would have been told,” she says quietly. “I thought you’d know it was me. That you’d have time to … prepare.”
“Well, I didn’t. So here we are.”
The silence stretches between us. It’s heavy and awful and I can’t look at her anymore. I turn back toward the kitchen and press my palms flat against the pass, staring at nothing.
Behind me, I hear her shift, the rustle of her blazer shifting. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s gripping that iPad so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“I can leave,” she says finally. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can call the investors right now and tell them there’s a conflict of interest. They can send someone else. I don’t have to be here.”
“No.”
She makes a surprised, breathless sound. “What?”
I turn back around to face her. Her shoulders are tight, her whole body wound up like she’s ready to bolt.
I don’t want to feel sorry for her.
I won’t.
“You’re here. They hired you. And apparently I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo about this little reunion.” I cross my arms over my chest, putting a barrier between us. Between now and five years ago. “So you might as well do your job.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
She stares at me, and I can see her trying to figure out if I mean it.
I do.
Because as much as I want her gone and to never see her again, I need help. The restaurant is dying. I’ve been hemorrhaging money for months. And if Vivienne is supposed to be good at this — and she must be, or the investors wouldn’t have hired her — then I need her.
Even if it kills me.
“We have six months,” My voice comes out flat and professional. “Six months to turn this place around or the bank forecloses. The investors are paying you to fix this. So fix it.”
“Callum, we can’t do this.”
“We can. And we will. Professionally.” I emphasize the word, making it a wall between us. “You’re the consultant. And I’m the chef. That’s it.”
“That’s it,” she repeats. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.
But what choice do I have?
“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “That’s it.”
We stand there, and the space between us feels like an ocean. Five years and a thousand unsaid things and all the ways we used to know each other, buried under anger and confusion and the sting of betrayal.
She takes a breath and squares her shoulders.
I watch her pull herself together in real time, so easily slipping into armor.
Her spine straightens and her chin lifts, the professional mask sliding into place so smoothly it’s almost impressive.
It’s like watching a door close. And nothing like the girl I knew.
“Alright,” Her voice is steady now. “Then let’s get started. I’d like to do a walkthrough of the space. Review the kitchen. Look at the —”
“Fine. Whatever you need.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
Neither of us moves.
This is a nightmare. This is actually a nightmare, and I’m going to wake up any second and realize I fell asleep at the stove again.
Except I don’t wake up.
Vivienne is still standing there, in my restaurant, looking at me like I’m a stranger.
And maybe I am.
Maybe we both are.
“The kitchen’s through here,” I say finally, because someone has to break this standoff, and it’s apparently going to be me.
I turn toward the kitchen doors without waiting to see if she follows.
But I hear her hesitant footsteps behind me, the soft click of her heels on the hardwood.
I push through the kitchen doors hard enough that they crack back against the wall. Roman and Cora both startle, spoons halfway to their mouths. Their faces are curious, but they take one look at me and the curiosity shifts to concern.
And I know, with a certainty I can’t shake, that the next six months are going to be the longest six months of my life.