17. Callum
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Callum
We don’t talk much on the walk back. We just walk side by side, close enough that our hands brush occasionally, our shoulders bumping with each step. Every accidental touch feels like torture.
The town is getting busier now. Dinner crowds are starting to emerge, people heading to restaurants and bars, dressed up for a night out. We weave through the sidewalk traffic and past the shops that are closing up for the night.
I can see Neap & Spring up ahead, the lights warm and inviting through the windows.
Almost there.
But I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to go back to being the chef and his consultant where we have to keep a professional distance and I have to pretend I don’t think about her constantly every day.
The thought feels like needles on my skin.
I’d do anything to hold onto the easy closeness of today.
“Oh,” I say, trying for casualness but landing somewhere flustered and awkward. “Frannie mentioned something earlier about the collaborative dinner.”
Vivienne’s stride hitches slightly, and she looks at me, her eyes bright with interest. “Yeah? I love that she is helping with everything.”
“She loves this kind of stuff. Anyway, I guess she found a chef she thinks would be perfect. Big social media following, apparently.” I’m trying to remember the details Frannie had been so excited about this morning.
She told me all about it while I was buried in morning prep and hadn’t had a single cup of coffee yet.
“He’s on tour doing collaborations with smaller restaurants up and down the coast. She said it’s like exposure for them and content for him or something.
I’m trying to remember the name. Something Voss? Stellan Voss, I think?”
Vivienne stops walking.
She shutters to a complete stop like someone has cut her power off mid-stride. One moment she’s beside me, and the next she’s standing deathly still in the middle of the sidewalk with both feet planted and her eyes somewhere far away.
Someone has to swerve around us, muttering a curse under his breath.
I stop too, taking a second to register what just happened before I turn back to look at her.
“You okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She’s looking at something ahead of us. Or through it, maybe. Like she’s seeing a different street entirely. Her face has gone pale, all the color draining out in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“Vivienne?”
Her hands are shaking. I can see them trembling where they’re clenched at her sides.
“I can’t —” Her voice comes out strangled and breathless. “Not him. We can’t — I can’t —”
Oh fuck. Oh no.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” I step closer instinctively, reaching for her, but she takes a step back. Away from me.
No. Don’t pull away. Don’t shut down. Not now.
“Vivi, what’s wrong?”
She’s trying to breathe, but it’s coming in these short, painful gasps. Quick inhales that don’t seem to bring any air with them. She’s trying to gulp oxygen down like she’s drowning.
Panic attack. She’s having a panic attack.
Right here in the middle of Main Street. In front of the hardware store and the wine shop and half a dozen other people who are starting to notice.
“Vivienne. Look at me.” I try to keep my voice calm, even though panic is clawing up my own throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.”
She shakes her head violently, eyes squeezed shut.
I look around quickly, looking for anything that might help.
A woman walking a golden retriever has slowed almost to a stop, concern written all over her face.
Two guys outside the hardware store are watching closely, not even pretending not to stare.
Someone across the street has turned to look, phone already halfway to their ear like they’re considering calling for help.
Personally I don’t give a shit what any of them think.
But Vivienne would hate this. She would rather dissolve into the sidewalk than have strangers watching her come apart on a public street.
She’d rather disappear than be this vulnerable in front of people she doesn’t know.
I know that about her the way I know the rest of her — without having to be told and without asking.
Fuck.
“Come on.” I take her hand. Her palm is clammy and her fingers are ice cold, but she doesn’t pull away, thank God. I guide her quickly down the street away from the crowd to the narrow alley beside the bookstore where delivery trucks unload. It’s more private and no one can see us here.
Once we’re out of view, tucked between brick walls and dumpsters, I turn to face her. She’s leaning against the wall now, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she’s trying to keep her heart from bursting through her ribs. She’s still trying to breathe and failing miserably.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I’ve seen panic attacks before. Beckett had one after a bad wipeout when we were teenagers. A line cook lost it during a particularly brutal service years ago right after we opened. But this is worse.
This is Vivienne.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
“In through your nose,” I whisper just for her, forcing myself to stay steady for her. “Out through your mouth. With me. In —” I breathe in, exaggerated and slowly, making it loud enough for her to hear over her own gasping.
She tries to match me and fails. Her breath hitches and breaks off in a gasp.
“You’re okay. Try again. In —”
We do it together. Once. Twice. Three times. I keep my eyes on her face, watching for any sign that it’s working.
Slowly, so slowly, her breathing starts to even out. The color comes back to her face in patches, pink blooming across her cheeks and nose. But her eyes are still wide and terrified.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps out, her voice ripped raw. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t — I wasn’t —”
“Don’t apologize. Just breathe.”
“I should be — I’m not usually —”
“Vivienne. Stop apologizing and just breathe.”
We stand there for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes. Me breathing with her. Her gradually coming back to herself.
Coming back to me.
Finally, she opens her eyes and looks straight at me.
“We can’t work with him,” she says. Her voice is stronger now but still shaking at the edges.
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea. A desperate, terrified plea.
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Callum. Not him. Please, anyone else. Just not him.”
“Okay,” I say again, more firmly this time. “We won’t. I’ll tell Frannie to keep looking. We’ll find someone else. There are hundreds of chefs out there. We don’t need him.”
She looks surprised. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I want to demand an explanation. I need to know what the fuck happened. I need to understand what could make her react like this, and I need to fix it immediately.
“You’re not going to ask why?”
I think about Wesley and Roman telling me to back off again. And how pushing her obviously hasn’t worked. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, or she won’t. I need to trust her even when I don’t understand.
I also think about her face right now. The absolute fear in her eyes. She’s still shaking.
And I know that whatever happened, asking her to relive it in this moment would be cruel. But I want to give her the choice.
“Do you want to tell me why?”
She shakes her head quickly.
It hurts. It fucking hurts.
But I get it.
“Then we don’t need to talk about it. We’ll find someone else,” I repeat, making my voice as firm as I can. “I promise.”
Relief floods her face, washing away some of the terror. “Thank you.”
“Come on.” I realize I’m still holding her hand. I haven’t let go this whole time. “Let’s get you back.”
We walk the remaining block to the restaurant, my hand wrapped around hers. She’s stopped shaking, but her palm is still clammy with panic sweat. I can feel her pulse racing against my thumb on her wrist.
My mind is racing too, trying to put the information I have together like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Stellan Voss. New York. Six months. This panic attack. The fear in her eyes.
When we reach the front door of Neap & Spring, she finally pulls her hand free.
I immediately miss the contact.
“I should — I should go,” she mutters, not meeting my eyes.
“You should eat. Have dinner here. I’ll cook something special just for you.” The words come out desperate. But I don’t care. I feel desperate right now. “Whatever you want. Anything.”
She shakes her head. “I need to go back to the cottage. I need — I need some space.”
“Vivi —”
“I’m fine. I promise. I just need to be alone for a bit.”
She doesn’t look fine. She looks shaken and pale and fragile in a way I’ve never seen her before. Like she might fall over if the wind blows wrong or she might shatter if I touch her.
But I can’t force her to stay. I can’t fix this if she won’t let me in.
So I try something else. Again, I’m desperate.
“Come to my dad’s on Sunday,” I blurt.
She blinks, confusion replacing some of the strain in her eyes. “What?”
“Family dinner. At my dad’s. Sunday. Come with me.”
“Cal, I can’t just —”
“You can. I’m inviting you. Dad always makes too much food anyway, and I —” The words catch in my throat.
I want you to meet my family. I want them to see you the way I see you. I want you to see that there are good people in this world who won’t hurt you. I want you to stay this time.
I want you to stay forever.
“I want you there. Please.”
I can see her trying to decide whether this is a good idea or not. Her eyes flick back and forth between mine, weighing the decision against whatever demons are chasing her.
Say yes. Please say yes.
“I’ll think about it,” she says finally.
It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no.
I’ll take it. I’ll take anything she’ll give me.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Think about it.”
She gives me a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Then she turns and walks toward her car, parked at the far end of the lot.
I watch her go, standing on the patio in front of my restaurant, my hand still warm from holding hers, still feeling the ghost of her pulse against my thumb.
Stellan Voss.
The name rattles around in my head like a coin in an empty jar. I know I’ve heard it before. Recently, maybe? Or —
Wait.
When Vivienne and I were still talking. Back when we texted every day and I knew what was happening in her life, she’d gotten that job in New York at some fancy restaurant that was getting all kinds of press.
She’d been so excited about it. It was exactly the kind of place she’d dreamed about working.
What was the name of the chef?
I pull out my phone, open Instagram with hands that are starting to shake, and search for Stellan Voss.
His profile loads slowly. Two million followers. Restaurants in New York, Miami and Los Angeles. In the bio, it lists his flagship: Voss — Contemporary American — NYC.
My stomach drops straight through the pavement.
I click through his posts with growing dread. Restaurant photos, perfectly plated food, him cooking in his whites. Him with celebrities. Him at awards ceremonies. Him looking successful and charming and like someone you’d want to work for.
Him at the James Beard Awards five years ago, holding a trophy and smiling like he owns the world.
Five years ago. Right when Vivienne went quiet.
Right before she stopped cooking.
Right when everything fell apart.
I scroll back farther, my heart pounding, until I find a photo of his kitchen team. The caption says something about his “incredible brigade” and “building the future of American cuisine.”
And there, in the back row, barely visible behind the taller cooks —
I zoom in.
Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, a few pieces escaping at the temples because her hair never quite cooperates.
It’s strict and soul sucking. Nothing like the messy style she wears every day here.
She has a stillness to her that makes my palms sweaty.
Her chef’s whites look too big on her frame, like she wasn’t eating properly.
Her face is partially obscured by the person in front of her, but I can see her tired eyes. I can see the tension in her shoulders.
I would know her anywhere. I knew her the second she walked through my door even after years of silence, and I know her now on a three-inch screen in a restaurant I’ve never heard of in a city I’ve never been to.
Vivienne.
She worked for him.
I think about her face when I said his name. The way all the color drained from her skin. The panic in her eyes. The shaking in her hands. The way she couldn’t breathe.
She said she can’t work with him.
Not “I don’t want to.” Or “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Can’t.
Like it’s not a choice and the very thought of being in the same room as him is physically impossible.
My hands are shaking now. With anger or with fear for her, I’m not sure. Maybe both.
What did he do to her?
What happened in that kitchen?
What happened that was so bad it made her stop cooking? What made her disappear on everyone who cared about her? What made her run from the thing she loved most in the world?
I stand there on the patio, staring at the Instagram profile of a celebrity chef I’ve never met, and I feel something cold and furious settle in my chest. It’s dark and violent and completely unfamiliar.
Whatever happened to Vivienne, he did it.
Stellan Voss did it.
And I’m going to find out what.