13. Vivienne #2
“You’re right,” I say, because there’s no point in lying. “The debt is significant. It’s going to take years to pay off, not months.”
“So what’s the plan?” Brad clips. “Because our partnership agreement has a clause about sustained profitability. If the restaurant can’t demonstrate a path to paying down this debt —”
Callum starts to speak, but his voice comes out too tight.
I press harder circles into the muscle beneath my palm, trying to steady him, and then my fingers graze somewhere they absolutely should not, and I make a sound I have to disguise as a sneeze while Callum’s hand clamps down hard over mine, holding it completely still.
“The plan is exactly what we’re presenting,” I recover first, giving Callum a second to collect himself.
“Immediate action on high-impact, low-cost initiatives. Building revenue month over month. Creating buzz and visibility that attracts more customers. Repeat customers.” I click to a projected timeline.
“Will it pay off the debt in six months? No. But it will stabilize the business. It will show consistent growth. And it will buy us the time we need to implement longer-term strategies.”
“What kind of timeline are we talking?” Jim probes.
I look at Callum. He needs to answer this one. This is his restaurant. His debt. His life.
He takes a breath, and I feel it in the rise and fall of his thigh under my palm.
And something else warm and unmistakable, pressed close enough to my hand that my mind abandons the meeting entirely and lands somewhere it has absolutely no business going.
Graduation night. The way he’d said Good girl low against my ear like it was just for me, like he’d known exactly what it would do.
I have to curl my fingers into his thigh and fix my eyes on my laptop screen and remind myself that there are three men in suits sitting across this table who are deciding the fate of this restaurant.
“Three to four years.” His voice comes out steady in a way mine definitely wouldn’t right now. “To pay off the debt completely.”
He turns to look at me, and one eyebrow lifts just slightly as his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip, his mustache shifting with the ghost of a smile. Like he knows exactly where my mind went.
“That’s a long time,” Brad interrupts.
We both startle, my hand pulling back and his chair scraping slightly against the floor. We’re both very suddenly very interested in the papers in front of us.
“It’s a realistic time,” Callum replies smoothly. “I’m not going to stand here and promise you miracles. But I can promise you that I will do whatever it takes to make this work. This restaurant —” He stops, and I can feel the emotion in the pause.
Under the table, his hand finds my thigh this time.
My breath catches audibly at the intensity, and I feel Callum’s eyes flick to me from the corner of his vision before he turns back to the investors.
I can’t breathe. His hand is on my thigh under the table, and I feel him inch it higher by degrees like he has all the time in the world. I reach for my water glass, fingers not quite steady, and bring it to my lips. The water is cold going down and does absolutely nothing.
“This is my life,” he continues as if I’m not self-imploding from a single touch. His voice steady even as his hand stays wrapped around my thigh under the table. “Everything I have is in these walls. I’m not giving up on it.”
The energy in the room shifts.
Cameron is nodding. Jim is writing something down. Brad is studying Callum with a new kind of attention.
“I believe you,” Brad declares finally. “I believe you’re committed. But commitment doesn’t pay bills.”
“No.” I press my palms flat on the table, which does nothing to calm me down from what’s happening under it. His fingers inch higher, slow and unhurried, teasing the boundary of my control.
I involuntarily lean forward, the delicate fabric of my skirt brushing against my bare thighs. I’m not wearing any underwear, a decision I made this morning in a haze of reckless abandon and lack of clean laundry, and now that choice feels like both a thrill and a danger.
He slips dangerously close to my center, and I gasp softly, the sensation igniting a fire that travels straight to my core. My breath hitches as I fight to focus, overwhelmed by the warmth radiating from his hand.
Everything else — the worries about the restaurant, the pressure from the investors, the endless planning — vanishes.
At this moment, it’s just us. I’m hyper-aware of the way his breath catches slightly, and the heat of his fingertips grazing my skin sends shockwaves of sensation coursing through me.
My heart races, each beat pulling me deeper into this intoxicating moment.
And then, just as suddenly, he withdraws, settling his hand back on the table as if nothing happened, leaving me breathless and yearning for more. I force myself to clear my throat twice, fighting to regain composure before I can finish the sentence.
“Revenue does,” I manage to say, my voice steady despite the heat coursing through me. “Which is why we need you to trust us to implement these changes and give us the space to execute this plan.”
“And if the numbers don’t improve?” Jim asks.
“They will.”
“But if they don’t?”
I don’t have an answer for that. None of us do.
The silence stretches out, and it’s uncomfortable. I’m still warm from where Callum’s hand was.
Then Brad closes his notebook. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We like the plan. We think you’re on the right track. But we need to see concrete results.”
My heart is pounding. “What kind of results?”
“Updated financials. Full projections with the new initiatives factored in. Month-over-month revenue comparisons. We want to see the implementation plan for each of these strategies. Who’s responsible, what the timeline is, how you’re measuring success.
” Brad ticks off items on his fingers. “And we want it by next Friday.”
“Next Friday,” I repeat, sputtering slightly.
That’s ten days.
“Think of it as a business plan. But detailed and very specific. With hard numbers and realistic timelines.” Jim is already standing. “You deliver that, and we’ll reassess and give you more breathing room.”
“And if we don’t deliver?” Callum asks quietly.
Brad stands too, straightening his suit jacket. “Let’s not go there. I have faith in you two. I saw something special here when we made this investment years ago, and I still see it. But we need more than potential. We need proof.”
Cameron is the last to stand, giving us an apologetic smile. “For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is really cool. The restaurant is beautiful and the food —” He gestures at the kitchen. “I’ve read the reviews. It’s supposed to be incredible.”
“Stay for dinner,” Callum says suddenly.
All three investors pause.
“Stay for dinner. Service starts in an hour. Let me cook for you.” Callum stands, and the uncertainty of the last hour has burned off. He’s at least certain and confident in his cooking. “You want proof this restaurant is worth saving? Let me show you.”
Brad and Jim exchange looks.
“We have another meeting —” Jim starts.
“Cancel it,” Callum interjects. “Stay. Eat. See what you’re actually investing in.”
The silence is excruciating.
Then Brad grins. “You know what? Why not. Cameron, cancel the 7:00.”
“On it,” Cameron’s already typing on his phone.
“Excellent.” Callum is already moving toward the kitchen. “Give me an hour. Vivienne will get you set up.”
And then he’s gone, pushing through the kitchen doors and leaving me alone with three investors, who hold the restaurant’s fate in their wallets, and my heart, which is still beating slightly too fast.
“Well,” Brad says, settling back into his chair. “This should be interesting.”
I smile brightly and stand on wobbly legs. “Let me get you gentlemen something stronger than water. We have an excellent local wine list.”
As I head to get Frannie to help me with drinks, I catch a glimpse through the kitchen window.
Callum is already at his station, calling out to Roman and the team, his hands moving with that familiar purpose and precision.
He’s doing what he does best.
Now I just have to figure out how to save his restaurant.