20. Callum #2
I turn to find him standing a few feet away, wiping his hands on a towel. His chef’s whites are splattered with the evidence of breakdown.
“Yeah?” I say, trying to sound normal and not like some creep who has been watching the girls for the past ten minutes.
“We’re done with breakdown. Danny already left. You need anything else before I head out?”
“No. I’m good. Thanks, Roman.”
He leans against the counter next to me and looks at the pan on the stove with the critical eye of someone who’s spent years in professional kitchens. “You’re still testing that dish?”
“It’s not right yet.”
“It looks perfect to me.” He tilts his head, studying the plated scallop with its pool of golden sauce and the precise placement of herbs. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s missing something.” I stare at the plate like if I look hard enough, the answer will just appear. “Some other element that would make it perfect instead of just good.”
Roman is quiet while he stares at the dish, considering. “You know the food’s going to be incredible, right? You’re going to kill it on Saturday.”
“I need to.” The words come out intensely.
“I need to match what Vivienne’s been building.
” I gesture vaguely toward the dining room, where I can still hear the three women talking, their voices overlapping with laughter.
“She’s been working her ass off on this event.
She sold out the entire dining room in four days.
Four days, Roman. Then she convinced me to open the patio so we could sell more tickets.
Somehow turned fifty seats into eighty-five. ”
Roman lets out a low whistle. “Eighty-five covers for a five-course tasting menu. That’s going to help a lot in the debt department.”
“I know.” I run a hand through my hair and feel the tension knotted in my shoulders and the tightness at the base of my skull.
“She’s been holed up in my office for weeks.
Just marketing and coordination and managing a thousand details I didn’t even know needed managing.
Designing the actual physical menus, arranging for a photographer, coordinating with Chef Singh’s team about who’s bringing what equipment, dealing with the food bloggers who keep emailing asking for preview photos.
There’s a seating chart. Did you know these things even need a fucking seating chart?
” I stop myself, realizing I’m rambling.
“The point is, she’s putting everything into this, and the food needs to be worth it. ”
“Your food is always worth it, Chef.” Roman’s voice is certain. “You know that.”
“This needs to be better than that.” I look at him, begging him to understand. “This needs to be the best food I’ve ever made. Because if it’s not … if I let her down —”
I don’t finish the sentence.
I don’t need to.
“Then it will be.” Roman shrugs simply. “You’ve got this. And Vivienne’s got the rest. It’s going to be great.”
I want to believe him. I want to have that kind of confidence.
But all I can think about is eighty-five people, all of them expecting something special because Vivienne convinced them this restaurant was worth their time and money. Because she believed in me enough to put her reputation on the line.
I can’t let her down.
“I’m heading out,” Roman yawns, pushing off the counter. “Don’t stay too late, yeah? You need to sleep at some point before Saturday.”
“Yeah. I will.”
We both know I’m lying.
He heads toward the back door, grabbing his jacket from the hook on the way. The door opens with a gust of cool ocean air, then closes behind him with a heavy thud, and I’m alone in the kitchen except for the hum of equipment and the distant sound of voices from the dining room.
I turn back to the stove and pick up my fork again.
But I’m not really looking at the scallops anymore.
I’m listening.
“— cannot believe how many people are coming,” Cora is saying, her voice bright with excitement and maybe a little stress. “I’ve been prepping dessert components for three days straight. My hands smell like chocolate, and I can’t get it out. I’ve washed them like forty times.”
“I would love to have chocolate hands.” Frannie sighs dreamily.
“You’re insane.”
“Chocolate-scented soap? Sign me up.”
They’re laughing again, and I can hear movement, the rhythm of their closing routine finishing.
“The buzz is incredible,” Frannie continues. “We’re getting reservations at a rate we’ve never seen before. People are booking tables now just because they heard about Saturday. We’re almost fully booked through the end of the month.”
“Really?” Vivienne’s voice sounds surprised.
“Really really. We haven’t had this much attention since — I don’t know, maybe ever? The opening was busy, but this is different.”
“That’s — that’s really good. Great. That’s what we wanted.” Vivienne sounds almost awed.
“It’s because of you.” Frannie’s tone is matter-of-fact.
“It’s literally my job.”
“Okay, but your job is working. Like, really actually working.” There’s warmth in Frannie’s voice. And genuine affection. “You’re saving this place, Viv.”
There’s a pause. Long enough that I almost peek through the window to see if Vivienne’s still there.
“I just want it to work,” Vivienne finally says, so softly I almost miss it. “For Callum. And for all of you.”
My heart squeezes like someone’s got it in a fist.
Months ago, Vivienne didn’t know Frannie and Cora beyond their roles in the restaurant.
Now they’re having deep conversations and making plans to get ready together at her cottage on Saturday.
Last weekend, she had dinner with Iris and came in the next day with a small, surprised smile like she hadn’t expected to make a friend.
Vivienne is making friends. She has plans weeks into the future on her calendar that is propped up in my office.
She is putting down small roots.
And I want those roots to grow so badly it terrifies me.
But something’s still off. She’s maintaining her distance. She won’t let me past the walls she has around her.
She won’t take walks with me anymore.
I thought maybe we shifted into different territory after dinner with my family, but I’ve asked three times since that day on the beach, and each time she has said no.
I suggested a walk after service when the kitchen is closed and the night air is cool and perfect.
Before the dinner rush when the afternoon light hits the water just right.
On our day off when we could actually take our time and go to the bakery and sit by the water and just talk.
But she always had an excuse ready. Always. She’s too busy with event planning. There’s too much to do before Saturday and she can’t afford to take a break. She needs to do laundry.
All valid reasons. All probably true.
But also, she’s avoiding me. She’s avoiding being alone with me.
She won’t let us be alone together if she can help it.
She’s strategic about it, almost military in her discipline about it.
She always makes sure someone else is around — Frannie, Roman, even customers at the bar.
She always leaves right when the last person leaves, timing it perfectly so there’s no chance of us being the only two people left.
She never lingers. And never gives us more than a few seconds of privacy.
But I catch her staring.
All the time.
During service, when she’s at her corner table with her laptop open, I’ll look up from plating and find her watching me. Her eyes tracking my movements across the kitchen, following me from station to station.
And when I catch her, she doesn’t look away immediately like someone who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t. She just holds my gaze, her expression unreadable, before going back to her screen like nothing happened.
It makes my heart race every single time.
And sometimes, when she passes close to me in the narrow spaces of the restaurant, reaching for a glass of water at the bar, or grabbing papers from the office, or moving through the kitchen, her hand will brush against my arm. My shoulder. The small of my back.
Small touches that could be accidental. That probably are accidental given how tight the space is and how easy it is to bump into people.
Except they happen too often to be coincidence. And they linger too long to be mistakes.
It’s driving me insane.
Actually insane. I can’t sleep. I can’t think about anything except those touches and what they mean and whether I’m reading into nothing.
I want to ask her about it. I want to pull her aside and demand to know what she’s thinking and feeling and whether those touches are intentional or if I’m just a desperate idiot seeing patterns where there aren’t any.
But I’m also terrified.
So I’m trying to be patient. And trying to give her space and let her come to me when she’s ready.
All while trying not to hope for something that might never happen but also watching her put down roots and being terrified she’ll rip them up and leave before they can take hold.
“Okay, I’m officially exhausted,” Cora’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “I’ve been on my feet since six this morning, and I can’t feel my toes. I’m heading out.”
“Yeah, same.” Frannie’s voice, already moving toward the front. “You coming, Viv?”
“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.” Vivienne’s voice is casual, but I catch a hint of nervousness in her tone.
I hear bags rustling as they grab their things, Frannie humming something under her breath that sounds like the song that’s been playing on the radio all week.
The front door opens. I hear the rush of outside air and the distant sound of the ocean.
And then it’s quiet again.
I stand very still, my hands braced on the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cool stainless steel, listening for movement. My heart is pounding harder than it should be since nothing is happening.
I listen to the footsteps still moving around in the dining room. The soft click of the deadbolt on the front door being turned. More footsteps getting closer to the kitchen.