6. Vivienne
CHAPTER SIX
Vivienne
I’m following Callum through his restaurant, and I think I might throw up.
He hasn’t said a word. Neither have I. The only sounds are his footsteps and mine and the distant clang of pans from somewhere ahead of us.
My mind keeps replaying how we got here as I follow him, trying to figure out where it all went wrong and pinpoint the exact moment I should have done something different.
I’d spent hours scrolling through the consultation file, the blue light making my eyes ache as I memorized every detail.
I knew the numbers by heart. On paper, the restaurant looked like it should be fine. Revenue was steady. The food costs were reasonable. Labor was managed well. The margins where they needed to be.
But the debt.
God, the debt.
There was a massive loan weighing everything down.
The amount made me feel physically ill when I first saw it.
The monthly payments were bleeding them dry.
Every dollar they made went straight to servicing that debt, leaving nothing for growth and definitely nothing for marketing.
They were barely making enough to keep the lights on.
It didn’t make sense. Why would a restaurant this size and this successful have that kind of debt?
Looking at the numbers, one thing was clear: the restaurant itself wasn’t failing. It was the debt that was slowly killing it.
They had six months until the bank called in the loan. It was bad. Not unsalvageable, but bad enough that Callum must not be sleeping. He must be hardly breathing with that number crushing him.
Neap & Spring sat right on the water, just like the photos showed.
But the photos didn’t capture how beautiful it was in person.
The morning light hit the weathered wood and made it glow.
The ocean stretched out behind it. There were flower boxes under the windows with lavender and wild grasses, and a small herb garden on the side that looked well-tended.
It was exactly the kind of place Callum said he would build.
I sat in my car for five minutes, gripping the steering wheel and trying to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Touched up my lip balm even though it didn’t need it. Straightened my blazer. Picked up my iPad and set it back down. Picked it up again.
I reached for the file in my passenger seat and opened it one more time. Stalling. I was definitely stalling.
But the numbers just didn’t make sense. A restaurant this gorgeous, in this location, with Callum’s talent behind it should be thriving. And from what I could tell from the file, it was thriving. The reviews I’d found online were raving.
It just didn’t add up. New restaurants didn’t usually carry that kind of loan, not unless something had gone very wrong. An investor pulling out? A lawsuit? Construction that went wildly over budget?
I’d have to ask questions and figure out what happened.
But first, I had to walk through those doors.
I made it to 9:58 before I forced myself out of the car.
I stood too fast and had to catch myself on the car door, waiting for the dizziness to pass before I could make myself move. The gravel was loud under my heels. The porch steps creaked with each step. My hand found the door handle, and I didn’t let myself hesitate. The front door was unlocked.
I stepped inside, and the dining room took my breath away.
There was wood everywhere. It was reclaimed and worn smooth by time and salt air. Exposed beams ran along the ceiling. The tables looked handmade, each one slightly different. The kitchen door sat in the corner of the back wall where I could hear the clang of pans and the low murmur of voices.
And floor-to-ceiling glass framed the ocean so completely it felt like the water was part of the room. You could watch the waves while you ate. You could taste the salt in the air.
I walked deeper into the room, my footsteps soft on the hardwood. I moved toward the windows, drawn by the view and the need to look at something other than the kitchen door where I knew Callum was.
I pressed my fingertips against the glass. It was slightly damp from the morning fog. The ocean was close enough that I could see individual waves, their white caps catching the sun.
I was standing there, staring at the water, when a voice behind me made me jump.
“Can I help you?”
I spun around, my heart in my throat, the iPad nearly slipping from under my arm.
A woman with wild red hair and a bright smile stood there, looking at me expectantly.
“I’m —” My throat was dry. I coughed to clear it. “I’m here for the ten o’clock consultation. With the … owner.”
“Oh! You’re the consultant!” Her whole face lit up. “I’m Frannie. The hostess. Well, hostess and sometimes server and sometimes I help with social media even though Cal doesn’t really believe in social media, but I’m working on him.” She says it all in one breath. “I’ll grab him for you. One sec!”
She disappeared through a door before I could respond, leaving me alone in the dining room with my racing heart and the sound of the ocean through the windows.
This was it.
In a few seconds, I’d see him. And he’d see me. And we’d have to figure out how to exist in the same space after years of silence.
I pressed my hand against my stomach, trying to calm the nausea, and turned back to the windows.
I’d memorized what I’d say. I’d rehearsed it in the mirror this morning. I practiced in the car on the way here. It played in my head on a loop. Stay professional and calm. Acknowledge the past but keep it brief. Focus on the restaurant and the work ahead.
Hi Callum. Long time no see. I know this is unexpected. The investors hired me, and I’m here to help. If you’re uncomfortable working with me, I completely understand, and I can request a replacement.
I heard footsteps and the kitchen door opened. My heart thumped in rhythm with the approaching steps. My shoulders tensed, drawing up toward my ears. I forced them down.
And then there was this prickle at the back of my neck. That feeling of being watched.
I turned around.
And there he was.
He looked different. Older. Tired in a way that went deeper than just lack of sleep.
His hair was longer than I remembered, dark and a little messy like he’d been running his hands through it.
The mustache was new. The tattoos on his arms were more extensive.
I could see them disappearing under the sleeves of his chef’s whites, ink covering skin I used to know.
He was still beautiful. Devastatingly so. In a rough, worn-down way that shouldn’t have worked but definitely did. Five years had carved something harder into him. He looked less like the boy I knew in Paris and more like a man who’d been through hell.
But his eyes. His dark blue eyes were the same.
Until they landed on me.
And went cold and angry in a way I’d never seen before from him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
And just like that, all my careful words evaporated.
That was twenty minutes ago. Now, my hands are shaking, and I can feel my heart beating in my throat, each pulse making my vision swim slightly. My iPad is slick with sweat where I’m gripping it, my fingers leaving damp prints on the black case.
He didn’t know.
Callum didn’t know I was coming.
I spent all night panicking about seeing him again.
I spent hours trying to prepare myself for his reaction.
And the whole time, I thought he’d been doing the same thing.
I thought we’d both walk into this with our armor on, ready for the inevitable awkwardness of facing each other after five years.
But he didn’t know.
And now he’s furious.
I’m walking behind him through the dining room, following him toward the kitchen, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. His hands are fists at his sides.
My own hands won’t stop shaking. I clutch the iPad tighter, using it as an anchor. My heels click on the floor with each step, announcing my presence though I want to disappear.
He told me to stay and do my job. Keep it professional.
But his voice was ice, and his eyes were fire, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.
Six months. I have to work with him for six months. In his restaurant. In his space. Pretending like we’re strangers who just happen to have a professional relationship.
Pretending like I didn’t break his heart and I didn’t break my own.
I have to make everyone believe that seeing him again doesn’t make me feel like I’m twenty-three again and falling in love for the first time. Because I’m not twenty-three, and he hates me.
And he has every right to.
The kitchen doors loom ahead of us, and Callum pushes through without looking back, clearly expecting me to follow. The doors swing wide, and I catch them before they can swing back and hit me. The heat from the kitchen engulfs me immediately. It’s intense after the cool dining room.
I take a breath and square my shoulders.
And I follow him into the kitchen.
The space is alive.
That’s the first thing I notice when we push through the doors.
The heat and the noise and the massive amount of energy of it.
Pans are sizzling on burners. The rhythmic sound of a knife hitting a cutting board fills the room.
Someone is calling out about oven temps.
It smells like butter and garlic and the ocean, and for a second I forget where I am.
For a second, I’m back in Paris, exhausted and exhilarated, working next to Callum at the station we shared. The two of us moving in sync, anticipating each other’s movements. Him laughing when I’d burn something and blame it on the temperamental ovens.
Then the moment breaks, and I’m here now, and Callum is across the kitchen not looking at me.
I step farther inside, staying close to the wall and out of the way. The tile is slightly slippery under my heels, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on me.
Callum doesn’t look at me at all. He just stops in the middle of the kitchen and raises his voice slightly. “Everyone, listen up.”