18. Vivienne #4
“I’m literally just trying to get to know the girl our brother is obsessed with.”
“Let the woman eat her dinner,” Patrick cuts in mildly, but there’s steel underneath. He holds the parental authority that doesn’t need volume to be effective. “Wes, tell Vivienne about Callum’s fishing disaster from a few weeks ago.”
“It wasn’t a disaster,” Callum responds, his hand tightening on my knee.
“You fell overboard.” Wesley grins wide in a lazy way. “Into freezing water in the middle of the ocean.”
“I didn’t fall. I was pulled!”
“Roman said you went full cartoon character,” Beckett adds, clearly delighted by this turn in conversation. “Arms windmilling, yelling the whole way down.”
And just like that, the attention shifts.
The spotlight moves off me and onto Callum, who’s now launching into an elaborate defense involving a massive halibut and Roman laughing too hard to be any help at all.
Wesley interjects with corrections about how Callum was flailing like he was drowning, and Beckett mimics the way Callum probably looked soaking wet and furious and cursing out a fish, and soon everyone is talking over each other again.
Laughing. Arguing. Being loud and chaotic and completely normal.
The pressure on my knee increases slightly. Callum’s thumb starts moving again in that small, soothing circle, slightly creeping up to my inner thigh. Around and around. Telling me without words that he’s here. And that I’m okay.
This is how they work, I realize, watching them redirect the conversation with practiced ease.
Someone gets uncomfortable, and they redirect.
Not because they don’t care about the answer.
They do care. But they’re paying attention and they can see when someone needs space, and they give it without making a big deal about it.
And it’s really nice, actually.
I take another bite of my pasta, and it’s good.
Really good. The sauce is rich and perfectly balanced, sweet from the tomatoes and savory from the meat, with just enough acidity to cut through the richness.
The pasta itself is cooked exactly right, a perfect al dente texture that’s harder to achieve than people think.
It’s simple food, nothing fancy or elevated, but the execution is perfection.
This is Callum’s cooking. Not the intricate, artistic plating he does at the restaurant where every element is exactly placed and every sauce is perfect.
This is the kind of food that feeds people.
Nourishes their soul. It says I love you without having to use words.
It’s comfort and home and family all in a single pasta dish.
“This is incredible,” I murmur, looking at Callum during a lull in the conversation.
He shrugs, but I can see the pleased look in his eyes. His mouth curves just slightly at the compliment. “It’s just bolognese. Nothing special. Though it did take me years to get the sauce right. Dad’s version was always too salty.”
“It was not too salty!”
“You put a pound of salt in everything you cook!”
“That’s called seasoning, Callum.”
“That’s called a heart attack waiting to happen.”
Hayes jumps in with his own opinion about proper seasoning ratios, and suddenly all of them are arguing again, this time about salt.
And whether you can over-salt tomato sauce, and if Patrick’s heavy hand with the saltshaker is a sign of his old age.
Iris and Beckett provide commentary from the sidelines like sports announcers, declaring winners and losers for each point made.
Wesley just chuckles softly every so often.
Callum leans closer to me while they’re distracted, his shoulder pressing against mine. His voice is low enough that only I can hear. “You doing okay?”
I nod, my eyes focused on the conversation that is now very heated about paprika.
“Not too overwhelming?”
“It’s —” I look around the table. At Patrick and Hayes still arguing good-naturedly about spices, both of them grinning.
At Beckett trying to steal food from Hayes’s plate while Hayes swats his hand away, still arguing.
At Iris, quietly smiling at the chaos like she’s seen this exact scene play out a thousand times and never gets tired of it.
At the photos on the walls and the mismatched chairs and the way everyone talks over each other but still somehow listens. “It’s really nice.”
Callum’s eyes search mine, his expression soft. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And I mean it. I mean it so much it hurts.
His hand squeezes my knee once, reassuring, before returning to his own lap.
I immediately miss the contact and the heat of his skin through my leggings and the gentle circle of his thumb. I miss feeling anchored and safe and like I belong here.
Even though I know I don’t. Even though I know this is temporary. Another job will come knocking, and I will answer it. I always do. I’m just the consultant who’s here to fix the restaurant and then I’ll leave. I won’t allow myself to break Callum’s heart again.
But for right now, for this one moment, I let myself pretend I can stay forever.