24. Callum
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Callum
The kitchen is ready.
I’ve checked everything three times. Every station is prepped.
Every container is filled and labeled. Every plate is stacked and ready.
The scallops are perfect. The halibut is pristine.
Amara’s components for the third course are lined up on her station like tiny soldiers waiting for orders.
Marcus has been working on his vegetable prep for two hours, and it looks like art.
And the weather is holding. The rain that’s been threatening all week is staying away, at least for now. The forecast says rain later tonight, but later is all I need. It just needs to let us get through service with the patio dry, the guests comfortable, and the view clear.
We’re ready.
So why does my chest feel like someone’s standing on it?
“Chef.” Roman appears at my elbow, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Dining room’s filling up. We’ve got about twenty minutes before the first plate.”
“How’s it look out there?”
“Packed. Standing room only at the bar. Frannie’s in her element.” He grins. “Also, your entire family is here. Your dad brought flowers.”
Of course he did.
I move to the window, looking out into the dining room.
And Roman’s right. It’s packed. Every table is full or in the process of filling.
I spot the investors immediately. We sat them at the prime table by the window with the best view in the house.
They’re already drinking wine and laughing about something loudly.
My family has taken over the big table in the back corner.
Dad, Wesley, Hayes, and Beckett, all dressed up in button-downs and jackets, looking slightly uncomfortable but happy to be here.
Dad’s talking to someone at the next table, gesturing with his wine glass.
Hayes is on his phone, probably checking work emails even now.
Beckett is leaning back in his chair, already charming a group of women at the table next to them, making them laugh with whatever story he’s spinning.
Wesley is standing near the table talking to two women — one with long blonde hair in a simple pink dress, the other all dark choppy hair, leopard pants, and visible tattoos on both arms. I can see even from here that Wesley’s shoulders are tight and his teeth are clenched.
His whole body language is screaming frustrated.
He’s got that look he gets when he’s trying very hard to be polite but is actually very irritated.
The tattooed one says something, and Wesley’s expression darkens. The blonde touches her arm, and they both move toward the bar with a wave. The tattooed one winks at Wesley.
Wesley watches them go, his eyes tracking them across the room, before sitting down at the table, hands curling into fists.
I have no idea who they are, but Wesley clearly does, and he clearly wishes he didn’t.
There are people I don’t recognize scattered throughout the room.
Food bloggers, probably, based on the cameras.
Several are already taking photos of the space, the ocean view, and the table settings Vivienne and Frannie worked so hard on.
There are locals I’ve seen around town but never served, all dressed up for the occasion.
A woman in the corner I’m pretty sure writes for a Portland food magazine, her notebook already open on the table.
I step back from the window and press my palms flat against the cool stainless-steel counter. I slowly take a deep breath in through my nose, filling my lungs completely, holding it for a count of four, and breathing it out through my mouth.
Eighty-five covers. Five courses. Three hours of service where everything has to be perfect.
Every plate that goes out has to be worth the hundred and fifty dollars people paid to be here.
The investors are watching. Food bloggers are ready to write about every flaw.
My entire family is sitting in the dining room putting their faith in me.
I can do this.
I’ve done this a thousand times. This is what I’m good at. This is what I’ve been training for my entire life.
The kitchen is ready. The team is ready. Amara and Marcus are dialed in. Roman knows every station like the back of his hand. Cora’s desserts are works of art sitting in the walk-in.
We’re ready.
Another breath. In and out.
I can do this.
The front door opens.
I turn toward the sound automatically, the way you do when you’re waiting for something without realizing you’re even waiting.
Vivienne walks in.
And everything stops.
The noise fades. The kitchen disappears. The eighty-five people and the investors and my family all blur into nothing.
She’s wearing the dress.
The black vintage dress from Paris. The one with the thin straps that cross at her back, fitted perfectly over her body and waist before flowing to just above her knees. The one she wore to our graduation ceremony with her hair pinned up and lipstick that matched the wine we drank after.
The one she wore to the bar that night. To my apartment. The one I watched fall to the floor of my bedroom while she looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She’s wearing that dress.
Her hair is down tonight, falling in soft dark waves past her shoulders. Her eyes are dark, and her lips are red, and she looks like she stepped directly out of my memory and into my restaurant.
She stops just inside the door, one hand still on the handle, and takes in the dining room.
I watch her eyes move across the space, gliding over the tables with their white linens and simple candles.
The windows overlooking the ocean. The flowers Frannie brought this morning, distributed across the tables in simple glass vases.
She slowly soaks in the full house, every seat claimed, every table fully occupied.
The energy in the room is alive and expectant.
Her eyes crinkle at the edges and wonder crosses her face, and I realize she’s seeing it the way it’s supposed to be seen. At this moment, she’s not a consultant calculating numbers and marketing angles. She is someone who helped build this and made it beautiful.
She presses her free hand to her chest, right over her heart, and I see her take a breath.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m moving.
Through the kitchen door, past Roman, who says something I don’t hear, out into the dining room. People are looking at me — my family, the investors, strangers with cameras — but I don’t care.
I’m walking toward her, and she hasn’t seen me yet. She’s still absorbing the room, her eyes bright with emotion, that hand still pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold all the feelings in.
Then she turns, and her eyes find mine.
The smile that breaks across her face is everything. It’s sunrise and coming home and every good thing I’ve ever wanted.
I close the distance between us in a few more strides, and when I reach her, I don’t think. I just pull her into me, one hand on her waist, the other coming up to cup her face.
“Hi,” I whisper. My voice comes out thick with emotion I’m not trying to hide.
“Hi.” She’s still smiling, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. “It’s perfect. Callum, it’s so perfect.”
“You look stunning.” The words come out quiet, just for her, even though I’m aware of all the eyes on us.
Her cheeks flush, the color spreading down her neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “Absolutely stunning. You’re —” I stop, shaking my head because words aren’t enough. “You’re perfect.”
She leans into the touch, her eyes soft. “Thank you for letting me be part of this.”
“Thank you for making it possible.” My chest cracks open, everything I’ve been holding in threatening to spill out. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. None of it.”
Then, I kiss her.
Right here in the middle of my dining room, with eighty-five people watching, with my entire family probably staring, and with the investors definitely taking notes. I kiss her like she’s the only reason any of this matters and she’s the only reason I’m still standing.
When I pull back, she’s flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged, her eyes wide.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “I should probably get back to the kitchen.”
“Probably,” she agrees, but she’s still holding onto my whites.
“You look beautiful.”
“You said that already.” But she’s smiling, her whole face lighting up.
“I’m going to keep saying it.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone again, feeling the warmth of her skin, trying to memorize the way she looks right now. “Every chance I get.”
“Go.” She pushes at my chest gently, but there’s no force behind it. “Go be brilliant.”
I step back reluctantly, my hands sliding away from her. Then I turn and head back to the kitchen, feeling her eyes on me the whole way and like I’m on top of the world.
Roman is waiting by the door, arms crossed, grinning like an idiot.
“Not a word,” I tell him.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, Chef.” But he’s still grinning, eyes dancing with amusement. “Fifteen minutes till the first course?”
“Fifteen minutes.” I roll my shoulders back, settling into the focus I need. “Let’s show them what we’ve got.”
The first course goes out at exactly six-thirty.
Amara’s crudo — thin slices of hamachi dressed in tamarind water with fresh green chili, crispy curry leaves, and a few drops of coconut oil that pool like tiny mirrors on the surface, plated on small white dishes that make the whole thing look like jewelry.
Marcus handles the garnish with tweezers, placing each curry leaf precisely, a thin curl of raw mango on top of each slice.
I watch the first plates go out through the window, Becca and Morgan moving in a synchronized rhythm they’ve perfected over years of working together.