23. Vivienne
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Vivienne
Six hours later, we’re all crammed around the large prep table in the back of the kitchen, surrounded by empty pizza boxes. We have thoroughly discussed every detail of tomorrow’s service, and my brain feels like it might leak out of my ears.
I keep catching myself looking at the prep table we’re all surrounding, and every time I do, my face goes hot.
When I look up, Callum is already watching me, completely insufferable, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he’s trying not to smile.
The third time it happens, he winks, and I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Patrick picked up four large pizzas from a place on Main Street — two pepperoni, one margherita, and one with what he called “everything that was available” — and announced that nobody was leaving until they’d eaten actual food.
Now the boxes are mostly empty except for a few cold slices that nobody has the energy to reach for.
Beckett is slouched in his chair, picking pepperoni off a slice, eating them one at a time.
Hayes has his head propped on one hand, eyes half-closed, looking like he might fall asleep sitting upright.
Wesley is leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, looking more alert than anyone else but still tired around his eyes.
Iris and Frannie claimed the two stools by the dish station, their legs swinging as they pass a bottle of water back and forth. Cora is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against a cabinet, scrolling through her phone with glazed eyes.
Callum is at the head of the table, still in his chef’s whites, going over his notes one more time even though we’ve been over them seventeen times already. His pen taps against the paper in an anxious rhythm. Roman is beside him, contributing occasional commentary between bites of pizza.
Amara and Marcus have integrated seamlessly into the frenzy. Amara is perched on the edge of the table itself, one leg folded under her, gesturing animatedly as she tells a story about a dinner service that went so wrong it somehow was “legendary.”
“— and then the fire marshal shows up,” she declares, “right in the middle of service, because apparently someone called about the amount of smoke coming from the kitchen!”
“Was there actually a fire?” Beckett asks sleepily.
“No! That’s the thing! It was just the duck fat we were rendering, but it was smoking like crazy because the hood vent had stopped working that morning.”
“How did you not notice the hood vent stopped working?” Callum looks up from his notes, his face deadly serious like he could not even imagine such a thing.
Amara grins. “Oh, we noticed. We just didn’t have time to fix it because we were in the middle of a hundred and twenty-cover night.”
“That’s insane,” Roman laughs.
“That’s Saturday nights in a city restaurant, baby.” Amara shrugs. “You just keep moving and hope nothing actually catches fire.”
Marcus, sitting quietly beside her with a slice of margherita, adds, “The fire marshal was actually really cool about it. He just made us open all the windows and told us to get it fixed before next service.”
“And did you?” Hayes asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Of course not.” Amara laughs cheerfully. “We had reservations the next night! We fixed it on Monday.”
Everyone laughs, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.
Patrick is leaning against the counter near the coffee station, sipping from a mug and watching all of us with that small smile fathers get when they’re watching their kids do something they’re proud of.
I’m wedged close to Callum in the small space, my own slice of pepperoni going cold on a paper plate in front of me. I’m too tired to eat, but also too wired to stop moving. My leg is bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm I can’t quite control, the anxiety of tomorrow vibrating through me.
Callum’s hand finds my thigh under the table, resting his weight on my leg, and the bouncing stops immediately.
I glance at him sideways. He doesn’t look at me as he focuses on his notes, but his thumb starts to move in a small circle.
“Alright,” Patrick yawns, pushing off from the counter and setting his mug down with a soft clink. “I’m going to head out before you all start running through the menu one more time.”
“We should run through it one more time,” Callum says immediately, looking up at everyone.
“No,” everyone says in unison.
Callum looks around the table, genuinely bewildered. “We have a big day tomorrow, and —”
“And we’ve run through the menu six times today,” Roman interrupts. “We know it, Chef. We’re ready.”
“But —”
“Callum.” Amara leans forward, catching his eye. “The menu is perfect. The timing is perfect. The plating is perfect. If we go over it one more time, we’re going to start second-guessing ourselves, and that’s when mistakes happen.”
Callum looks like he wants to argue, but then his shoulders drop slightly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” Amara slides off the table, stretching her arms over her head. “What we all need is sleep. Real sleep. Not that thing where you lie in bed running through prep lists in your head until you pass out.”
“I don’t do that,” Callum protests, but there’s no conviction in it.
Everyone looks at him.
“Okay, I do that,” he admits. “But it’s productive!”
“It’s not productive. It’s anxiety,” Frannie quips from her stool, pointing at him with a half-eaten crust. “And Amara’s right. We all need to go home and actually rest.”
People start moving then, gathering their things, stacking pizza boxes, saying their goodnights. Wesley claps Callum on the shoulder on his way out. Hayes and Beckett leave together, arguing about who knows what. Iris gives me a quick hug, whispering “Good luck tomorrow” before following them.
Patrick is the last of the family to leave, stopping by Callum on his way to the door. He says something too quiet for me to hear, but Callum nods, and Patrick squeezes his shoulder before heading out into the night.
“Okay,” Amara says, pulling her jacket back on. “Marcus and I are at that cute little inn down the road. We’ll be here at eight tomorrow morning to start prep. Sound good?”
“Perfect,” Callum responds, standing to walk them out.
“Vivienne.” Amara pulls me into another quick hug. “Thank you for today. For all of this. It’s going to be incredible.”
“I hope so,” I mutter against her shoulder. “I really think it will be.”
“I know it will be.” She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders, her smile so certain. “We’ve got this.”
Then she and Marcus are gone, the back door closing behind them with a soft click.
Frannie and Cora leave shortly after, calling out goodnights as they go.
And then it’s just me, Callum, and Roman.
“I’m going to finish the prep list for tomorrow,” Roman says, but he’s looking between us with barely concealed amusement. “You two should, uh, probably also go home. And sleep. Like Amara said.”
“Good idea,” Callum says, not moving, his gaze never leaving my face.
“Great idea,” I add, also not moving, staring right back.
Roman grins. “Okay then. I’ll just … be in the walk-in. Doing very important, very loud, chef things. For at least fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Maybe longer if you need it.”
And then he’s gone too, disappearing into the walk-in with an exaggerated whistle.
The kitchen is suddenly very quiet.
Callum’s still staring at me, and there’s exhaustion in his expression, but also anticipation. He’s been waiting all day for everyone else to leave. “Hi,” he murmurs.
My heart kicks against my ribs. “Hi.”
We stand there for a moment, the humming of the kitchen around us mixing with the distant clatter of Roman doing whatever he’s doing in the walk-in.
“Can I walk you to your car?” Callum asks.
It’s such a simple question, but the way he asks it, shy and almost tentative, makes it feel like it’s the most important question he’s ever asked.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’d like that.”
I grab my bag from the office, and he waits by the back door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the door open for me. The rain has stopped, and the air is still damp and cool, smelling like wet pavement.
My car is parked at the far end of the lot, under the one streetlight that actually works. Our footsteps are quiet on the gravel, punctuated by the distant sound of waves hitting the rocks below the restaurant.
We’re halfway to my car when his hand finds mine, and he slowly laces his fingers through mine. Neither of us say a word, but I catch a faint smile on his lips.
When we reach my car, I turn to face him, my back against the driver’s side door. He’s still holding my hand, his thumb moving in that small circle against my palm that I’m starting to recognize as his thing.
“Vivienne,” he starts, taking a slow breath. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like — I don’t know — like I’m not saying enough.”
“Just say it,” I tell him softly.
He pulls me closer, his free hand coming up to cup my face. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and then he’s leaning in, and I’m meeting him halfway.
The kiss is gentle. Nothing like the desperate, hungry thing in the kitchen. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine, both of us breathing in the same small space.
“Thank you,” he mutters. “For everything you’ve been doing for us.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know this won’t erase the debt.” His voice is rough and emotional in a way I rarely hear from him, and it brings tears to my eyes.
“I know we’re still drowning financially.
But what you’ve done — the attention, this event, the way you’ve made people care about this place again.
” He blows out a breath, his hand tightening slightly on mine.
“You’ve given me something I didn’t think I’d get back. ”
“What’s that?” I whisper.