6. Vivienne #2
The kitchen staff goes silent, but the background noise continues — someone’s timer still beeping, water still running in the dish pit. Everyone turns to face us, expressions filled with curiosity.
“This is Vivienne Lane,” Callum says, and his voice is flat and professional in the absolute worst way. “She’s the consultant the investors hired. She used to be a chef. But now she’s here to tell us how to run a restaurant.”
The jab lands exactly where he intended it to.
I feel my face flush, heat crawling up my neck. But I keep my expression neutral and as professional as I can. I shift my weight, adjusting my hold on the iPad, and take a small step forward.
“Hi, everyone. I’m here to help,” I say, meeting the eyes of the staff members watching us.
My voice is steadier than I feel. “I know change can be uncomfortable, but my goal is to work with you, not against you. I want to understand what’s working and what’s not and how we can make Neap & Spring even better. ”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then a voice from the back cuts through. “Even better? We’re already pretty fucking great if you ask me.”
I look over and see blond wild hair. He’s grinning, unbothered by the tension radiating off Callum like heat from a stove. He’s wiping his hands on a towel as he walks toward me, and there’s an easy confidence in the way he moves.
“Roman,” Callum says with a warning in his voice.
“What? We are.” Roman extends a hand to me. “Roman Delgado. Sous chef. Also the best looking person in this kitchen, but don’t tell Chef I said that.”
I shake his hand, and his grip is firm. My hands have stopped shaking now, or at least if they are, Roman doesn’t seem to notice. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is definitely mine.” His grin widens. “So you used to be a chef? Where’d you cook?”
“Oh, uh, a few places. I went to school at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, then —”
“Paris,” Roman interrupts, his eyes lighting up. “Wait — Le Cordon Bleu?”
My stomach drops, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Yes.”
“Chef went there too!” Roman glances at Callum, who has gone very, very still. “Small world. You two know each other?”
The silence that follows is excruciating.
I can feel everyone’s attention shift to us. To Callum and me. I want to step back and put more distance between us, but my feet won’t move
“We were in the same program,” I say carefully. “A long time ago.”
“Huh. Real small world,” Roman repeats, but now there’s an edge to it. He’s not stupid. He can feel the tension.
Callum’s jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Roman, don’t you have fennel to finish?”
“Already done. I’m a prodigy, remember?” Roman turns back to me, and the easy charm returns, but I can see the curiosity in his eyes. “So, Vivienne. That’s a beautiful name, by the way. Very elegant. It matches the person.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Thank you.”
“You want to get a drink later? I can tell you all about the restaurant and give you an unofficial tour.” He’s still smiling, but there’s genuine warmth underneath the flirtation. An offer of friendliness in a room full of judging stares.
“Roman.” Callum’s voice could cut glass.
Roman holds up his hands, laughing. “What? I’m just being friendly. You’re the one who said we should make her feel welcome.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
I clear my throat, needing to redirect before this devolves further. “Should we continue with the tour?”
Callum looks at me, and for just a second, the anger drops out of his expression entirely. Then the door closes again, shuttered away behind that cold mask.
“Yeah. Fine.” He gestures to a woman standing near the pastry station. “That’s Cora. She’s our pastry chef.”
I turn to look and find a petite woman with dark skin and box braids pulled back into a bun. She’s got flour on her hands and what looks like lemon curd on her apron. She gives me a small smile, but her eyes flick to Callum with a look of concern.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“You too. That looks incredible.” I say, pointing to a lemon meringue.
Her smile warms slightly. “Thank you. It’s new. I’m still working out the kinks.”
“It looks perfect,” I say honestly, leaning in to look at the plating more closely. The burnt meringue has the ideal char. “I can tell without even tasting it.”
Callum makes a sound that might be an agreement, but it’s hard to tell. He’s already moving on, gesturing to the next station.
We continue through the kitchen. Callum introduces me to the line cooks — Marvin and Javi, both young, both watching Callum carefully like they’re trying to gauge how they should react.
I shake their hands and ask about their stations.
Marvin is on sauté, and his prep work is impeccable.
Perfectly diced shallots, fresh herbs picked and ready, and small containers of reduced stock are lined up in neat rows.
Javi handles the grill and keeps shooting me suspicious looks.
The prep cook is a kid named Danny who can’t be older than twenty. He barely makes eye contact when Callum introduces us. He just nods while his hands never stop their work on brunoised carrots.
The dishwasher, Lou, is an older guy with gray hair and tattooed knuckles. He just smiles at me and goes back to scrubbing a pot, unbothered by the tension everyone else can feel.
I take notes on my iPad, my fingers finding the familiar rhythm of typing. I ask questions about prep times and where they source their ingredients. The flow of service and each individual job. Everyone answers, but their eyes keep darting to Callum, checking for his reaction.
He’s stone-faced, arms crossed and radiating displeasure with every word.
Roman keeps trying to lighten the mood. He keeps cracking jokes and asking me questions about consulting like he’s genuinely interested. “So what’s the coolest restaurant you’ve worked with? Any place I’d know?”
“A few,” I say, managing a small smile. “Mostly smaller operations like this. Places with great food that just need help with the business side.”
“That’s us,” Roman says. “Great food with questionable business decisions.” He grins. “What did you find out so far?”
I glance at Callum, but he’s not looking at me. “It’s still early,” I say carefully. “But the kitchen is clearly well-run. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing.”
“Damn right we do,” Javi mutters from the grill station.
I’m dying inside. Every second of this is torture.
I can feel Callum’s anger like a physical presence, pressing against my chest and making it hard to breathe.
The heat from the kitchen isn’t helping.
I can feel sweat starting to gather at the small of my back and against my hairline.
I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know how to do my job when he’s looking at me like I’m the enemy.
“Alright,” Callum says finally, cutting off a question I was asking Marvin about his prep schedule. “That’s the kitchen. Let’s move to the dining room.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and heads for the door.
I start to follow, tucking the iPad more securely under my arm, but Cora catches his arm as he passes.
“Chef,” she hisses at him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He stops. “Now?”
“Yeah. Just — two seconds.”
I can see the war in his expression, but he nods. “Fine. Vivienne, give us a minute.”
I step back, pressing myself against the wall near the walk-in, pretending to look at something on my iPad. But I’m watching them out of the corner of my eye.
They move to the far corner of the kitchen.
Cora says something I can’t hear, but Callum’s response is defensive, his shoulders go up and his hands gesture sharply.
She puts a hand on his arm, says something else, and his shoulders drop slightly.
Not much, but enough that I can tell whatever she said got through.
He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted, and says something back that makes Cora’s expression soften. She squeezes his arm.
Then she glances over at me, and our eyes meet for just a second before she looks away.
They’re talking about me.
Obviously they’re talking about me.
I focus on my iPad, scrolling through nothing, just needing something to do with my hands. Roman is watching me from across the kitchen, and when I accidentally make eye contact, he gives me a sympathetic smile and a little shrug that says What can you do?
Callum nods at whatever Cora says, and they both head back toward me. His face is carefully neutral again, but some of the harsh edge is gone. He’s still cold, but not quite as cutting.
“Dining room,” he pushes through the door without another look in my direction.
Roman catches my eye as I pass and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “He’s always like this.”
Except I know that’s not true.
Callum isn’t always like this. He’s never been like this.
He’s like this because of me.
I follow Callum, my chest tight and my hands shaking slightly where I’m clutching the iPad like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. The cool air of the dining room is a relief after the kitchen heat, and I take a deeper breath than I have in the last thirty minutes.
The kitchen was all heat and noise. Out here, it’s quiet and calm. The early-afternoon light is streaming through those massive windows making the whole space glow.
Frannie is at the hostess stand doing something on a tablet. She looks up when we walk through, and her face lights up.
“How’d it go?” she asks brightly, looking between Callum and me like she’s trying to read the situation.
“Fine,” Callum says, which is possibly the least convincing lie I’ve ever heard.
Frannie’s eyes narrow slightly, but she keeps smiling. “Well, Vivienne, welcome to the front of house. We met earlier, but officially: hostess, occasional server, social media manager even though someone” — she shoots a pointed look at Callum — “doesn’t believe in Instagram.”
“Instagram is a waste of time,” Callum mutters.