20. Callum
CHAPTER TWENTY
Callum
The restaurant is quiet in that very specific way it only gets after closing.
There’s still noise from the kitchen, but it’s different from the chaos of service.
The rhythmic clatter of the dishwasher running its final cycle.
Water running in the industrial sink, hitting stainless steel in a constant stream.
The sound of Roman and Danny moving through their closing routines, pans clanging as they get stacked and nested, the low murmur of their voices as they confirm everything’s done and ready for tomorrow.
The dining room is empty. Tables are wiped down, their surfaces gleaming and reflecting the dim overhead lights we leave on after hours.
Most of the chairs are stacked on top of them, legs up, creating jagged shadows on the walls.
The frantic energy of the day has settled.
It’s peaceful and I can feel my shoulders dropping more by the second, the tension I carry through dinner service finally easing.
And I’m testing scallops.
Again.
My hands move through familiar motions. I adjust the heat on the burner with a small turn of the knob that changes the flame from blue-white to a softer yellow.
Then I reach for the cast-iron pan, the handle wrapped in a towel because it’s been on the heat too long to touch bare-handed.
I tilt it slightly, pooling the brown butter against the side, watching it foam and separate, listening to the sizzle change pitch as the milk solidifies.
The collaborative dinner is in three days.
Seventy-two hours until Chef Amara Singh arrives from Portland with her sous chef.
Seventy-two hours until we share this kitchen — my kitchen — and cook together for a sold-out house.
Every food blogger and critic and local foodie within a hundred miles is expected to descend on Neap & Spring to see if we’re worth the hype Vivienne’s been building for the past two months.
No pressure.
Right.
I pull the pan off the heat and plate a scallop.
The sear is perfect. Its deep golden-brown crust has the kind of caramelization that only happens when the pan is exactly the right temperature and you don’t move the scallop even once, not even to peek.
The flesh will be just barely opaque, tender, and almost buttery in texture.
The sauce is a brown butter emulsion with preserved lemon and capers. It’s the color of honey, flecked with green herbs and dark beads of capers. It looks right. It smells right. Bright citrus is cutting through the richness of the butter, the salt of the capers providing stark contrast.
But something’s missing.
I just have that gut feeling that tells you when a dish isn’t quite there yet.
I grab a clean fork from the container beside the stove and cut into the scallop. Steam rises from the cut, and I can see the translucent center, perfectly cooked. I get some of the sauce on the fork and bring it to my mouth.
I close my eyes and let the flavors develop on my tongue. The sweetness of the scallop. The nutty richness of brown butter. The bright pop of preserved lemon. The brine of capers.
Good. It’s really good.
But it’s not perfect.
Not yet.
It needs more acid. Maybe a touch more capers, or a squeeze of fresh lemon at the end. Or maybe —
“Oh my God, Viv, that’s perfect on you!”
Frannie’s voice cuts through my concentration, loud and enthusiastic, completely shattering the quiet of the restaurant.
I glance up from the plate, almost annoyed at the interruption, and look through the window into the dining room.
Vivienne is standing by table four with Frannie and Cora, all three of them clustered together in that way women do when they’re sharing something exciting.
Frannie leans in to look at something on Vivienne’s phone, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
Cora is perched on the edge of one of the unstacked chairs, her legs crossed, still in her chef’s whites.
Vivienne’s got her hair down for once. Not twisted up in that pen-stabbed bun she wears when she’s working.
And not pulled back in the sleek ponytail she does for investor calls.
It’s just … loose. It falls around her shoulders, dark and wavy, falling past her collarbones, and catching the overhead lights in a way that makes it look almost black in some places and deep brown in others.
She’s wearing black leggings that I’ve seen a dozen times and an oversized gray sweater that slips off one shoulder, exposing the line of her collarbone and the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Her skin looks soft even from here.
She’s laughing at what Frannie said, her head tipped back slightly, completely unguarded. One hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear in that automatic gesture she does when she’s self-conscious about it being down.
I watch her for a second longer than I should.
Way longer than is professional or appropriate.
I can’t help it. I’m drawn to the way she moves.
She’s easy and relaxed in a way she doesn’t usually allow herself to be, her carefully controlled consultant facade completely gone.
She’s just Vivi right now. Laughing with friends. Belonging here.
Like she’s not planning to leave.
I force myself to look back down at the scallops, my nerves frayed. I turn my attention back to the sauce and adjust the heat, focusing on the problem I’m trying to solve.
Focus.
Don’t think about her hair. Don’t think about that shoulder or the long line of her neck. Don’t think about how she looks when she’s laughing like that.
I adjust the burner again, bringing the pan back to temperature.
“I don’t even know if I have shoes that would work with it,” Vivienne is saying, her voice carrying easily through the restaurant, doing absolutely nothing to help my concentration.
“You have to have shoes,” Cora replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “It’s a formal dinner. You can’t wear your boots.”
“What’s wrong with my boots?”
The boots in question are probably the ankle boots she wears almost every day. I’ve seen her in them so many times I could probably draw them from memory. I could probably describe the exact way the leather creases across the toe and the small scuff on the left one.
“Nothing! They’re great for every other day,” Frannie exclaims quickly. “But Saturday is fancy. We’re all dressing up. It’s a whole thing. A celebration! I got a new dress specifically for it.”
“At least I don’t need a new dress.” Vivienne’s tone is amused and self-deprecating in that way she gets sometimes.
“I have this one fancy dress. That’s it.
One. This black vintage thing I’ve had since culinary school.
” She holds up her phone again, the screen flashing bright in the dim dining room. “I haven’t worn it in — God, years.”
A black vintage dress.
The memory slams into me like a rough punch before I can stop it. It’s painful and so clear it’s like I’m back there and no time has passed at all.
Graduation night in Paris.
Vivienne had shown up in this dress.
It was black, simple at first glance but absolutely devastating on her. It had thin straps that crossed at her back, showing off lean muscles, fitted through the body and waist, showing every perfect line and every flawless curve.
She’d looked breathtaking.
I’d barely been able to form words when I first saw her. I had just stood there staring like an idiot, my brain completely offline, while she laughed and asked if I was okay and if I’d had too much wine already.
I’d thought about kissing her all night. I watched her in that run-down little bar, in that dress, laughing with everyone, fitting so perfectly into my side when we stood together like we’d been doing it for years.
And then I did kiss her.
I finally worked up the nerve, or maybe it was the cheap wine, to just lean in and kiss her.
And she kissed me back.
Her hands in my hair, her body pressed against mine, tasting like red wine and possibility and everything I’d wanted for years.
We ended up at my apartment. My tiny studio with the window that looked out at another building’s brick wall. We spent the night together, and I told her that she was it for me and I’d wait for her however long it took. Wherever she ended up, I hoped it would eventually be somewhere with me.
She didn’t say it back.
But she’d held my hand and kissed my knuckles and let me hold her while we fell asleep tangled together in my too-small bed, and I’d thought that meant something. That her silence was at least agreement. That staying meant yes.
“Ooh. That dress would be stunning,” Frannie is saying now, her voice pulling me back to the present with a jolt. “Especially with your hair down like this. You should wear it down more often.”
“You think so?” Vivienne sounds skeptical. “It gets in the way when I’m working.”
“It’s gorgeous, though. Right, Cora?”
“Definitely gorgeous,” Cora agrees enthusiastically. “Super romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.” Vivienne lifts one of the few chairs that are still down, flipping it up onto the table, the legs settling with a soft thud against the wood. “I’m trying to look professional.”
She’s laughing as she says it, light and easy, moving to the next table, her hands already reaching for another chair.
“You can be both,” Frannie insists.
Through the window, I watch Vivienne shake her head, a small smile on her face.
She reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear again, and the motion makes her sweater slip further off her shoulder, exposing more skin.
I turn back to the stove before I get caught staring.
This is pathetic. I’m standing here eavesdropping on their conversation like I’m some kind of lovesick teenager instead of a grown man with a restaurant to run and a collaborative dinner to prepare for.
“Has anyone seen Chef?” Roman asks behind me, close enough that I jump slightly, my hand jerking.
Shit.