31. Vivienne
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vivienne
The bathroom is barely big enough for the two of us and the supplies Callum gathered from the kitchen before we retreated in here.
He has them all lined up on the edge of the tub — a first aid kit that looks like it’s from the nineties, clean towels, and a bowl of water he somehow managed to fill despite the chaos outside.
We’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and the edge of the bathtub, facing each other, knees almost touching in the cramped space.
I’m wrapped in a blanket, wearing a Neap & Spring sweatshirt I stole from Callum’s office weeks ago and never gave back.
It’s huge on me, the sleeves hanging past my hands, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
He’s still shirtless, his jeans damp and clinging to his legs, his hair starting to dry in waves that curl slightly at the ends.
The storm is still raging outside. I can hear the wind screaming around the cottage.
Rain hammering against the roof. The ocean roaring in the distance.
But in here, with the door closed and no large windows to rattle, it feels almost peaceful.
Like we’re in a bubble separate from the destruction happening just beyond these walls.
Safe.
Callum has my foot propped on his knee and a damp towel in his hands as he carefully cleans the cuts from the broken glass. His touch is gentle and methodical.
He picks out a small shard of glass with tweezers, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. “Does this hurt?”
“No. You’re being very gentle.”
“Good.” He sets the glass aside carefully in a pile on the counter, reaching for another piece. “I’m trying.” His shoulders are hitched near his ears, and I can see the tension lined in every angle of his body.
“Cal.” I reach out and touch his face, making him look at me. “I’m okay. You got to me in time. I’m okay.”
His eyes are full of relief when he looks at me. His face is etched in lingering adrenaline and something that looks like wonder. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, safe and in front of him.
“I know,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I know you are. I just —” He goes back to cleaning my foot with movements that are almost reverent. “I keep thinking about what could have happened if I’d waited longer. If I’d decided to give you more space.”
“But you didn’t. You came for me.”
“Of course I did,” he says, like there was never another option.
He applies antiseptic to the cuts, and I hiss slightly at the sting.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his thumb gentle on my ankle.
I give him a small smile and wave him on to continue.
He does, working in silence for another minute before reaching for the bandages. His hands are steady as he wraps my foot, securing the gauze with medical tape. Each movement is him trying to pour all the caring he feels into this simple act of tending to me.
“There,” he breathes out when he’s finished. “All done.”
He doesn’t let go of my foot. He holds it there on his knee, his thumb brushing absently along my ankle in that gentle circle he does when he needs to touch me to reassure himself I’m real.
The cottage groans around us. Something loud crashes outside. The wind sounds like it wants to take the whole coast with it.
But Callum’s hands are warm on my skin, and his eyes are sleepy and full of love when he looks at me, and I feel safer than I have in years.
He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. His thumb stills on my ankle.
“I have something to tell you,” he starts hesitantly.
My stomach tightens.
“Okay,” I draw out, anxiety spiking in my chest.
He’s quiet for another moment, and I watch him gather his thoughts, his fingers flexing slightly against my skin.
“The debt is gone,” he says finally. “The restaurant debt. The loans I took out.” He looks up at me now, and he looks so genuinely happy. “All of it. It’s gone.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “I don’t understand. How?”
“John Castellano.” He shifts slightly, adjusting my foot on his knee. “Sloane’s dad. He left provisions in his will to pay off the debts of all the local businesses on that stretch of the beach. Including mine.”
“All of it?” I whisper.
“All of it. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.” He laughs, but it sounds slightly disbelieving, like he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. “Margo came to the restaurant this afternoon to tell me right as the storm hit. She said the estate already processed the payments. And it’s done.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and I see his eyes go bright with unshed tears.
“For two years,” he continues, his voice rougher now, “I’ve been giving fifty percent of everything I make to pay it off.
Fifty percent, Vivi. Half of every dollar that comes through that restaurant has gone straight to the debt.
I’ve been lying awake every night for two years trying to figure out how to keep the doors open. ”
He brings his hand up to rub at his eyes, pressing his palms against them. When he drops it, his face is wet.
“And now it’s just … gone.” He’s shaking his head like he’s waiting for someone to tell him it was a mistake. “No more payments. No more investors breathing down my neck and threatening to pull funding. No more feeling like I’m drowning.”
I slide off the toilet lid, ignoring the protest from my bandaged foot, and move to him. He shifts back slightly on the edge of the tub to make room, and I settle onto his lap, straddling his thighs, my hands coming up to frame his face.
“That’s wonderful news, Callum,” I breathe against his lips. “This is everything you needed.”
“I can breathe again,” his voice breaks completely, the words coming out strangled. “For the first time in years, I can actually breathe.”
I can see in his eyes the relief and the joy. The sheer overwhelming gratitude. And underneath it all, exhaustion. He’s been holding himself upright through sheer force of will for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like to rest and not carry all that crippling luggage.
“I’m so happy for you,” I whisper, brushing my thumbs across his cheekbones, catching the tears there. “Cal, this is so incredible.”
“I wanted to tell you immediately.” His hands find my waist, holding on like I’m an anchor in a storm.
“The second Margo told me, all I could think about was telling you. I wanted to call, to text, to drive straight to the cottage and —” He pauses and takes a deep breath.
“But you needed space. And I was trying so hard to give that to you and to not make this about what I needed.
“But then the storm started getting worse.” His grip tightens on my waist, his fingers digging in slightly. “I was sitting in the restaurant watching the ocean go completely wild, and all I could think about was you in this cottage. This old, falling-apart cottage right on the water.”
His gaze moves between my eyes.
“And I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I couldn’t sit there giving you space when you might be in danger. So I just — I got in my truck. I didn’t even think about how dangerous the drive would be. The rational part of my brain shut off completely. I just had to get to you.”
His eyes are intense on mine as the words tumble out.
“Space, I could give you. Time to process and time to figure things out — I could give you that. But not right now. Not when you might be hurt or scared or —” His voice catches.
“I had to make sure you were okay. Even if you didn’t want to see me, I had to know you were safe. ”
I lean forward and kiss him, full of all the love I feel for this man who drove through a storm because he couldn’t stand the thought of me being alone and scared.
When I pull back, we’re both crying, tears mixing together.
“The name,” I gasp, my voice shaking. “You don’t have to change it. You get to keep Neap & Spring.”
A smile breaks through the tears, transforming his face. “I get to keep Neap & Spring. I get to keep all of it exactly the way I built it. The way I dreamed it.”
“And the investors?”
“They don’t matter anymore.” He’s grinning now, and it’s so full of happiness it makes my heart squeeze. “I can tell them to take their rebrand and shove it up their ass.”
The sheer relief in his voice makes my eyes sting all over again. “It’s yours.”
“It’s mine.” He says it with wonder, like he’s just now testing out the words. “Completely and totally mine.”
I kiss him again, deeper this time, trying to pour all my happiness for him into it. He makes a sound against my mouth, a mix between a groan and laugh, and pulls me closer, his hands sliding up my back under my sweatshirt.
When we break apart, we’re both breathless.
“I have something to tell you too,” I whisper against his lips.
His hands freeze on my back and his eyes find mine, and I can see a flicker of nervousness there.
I take a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. But there’s too much. It’s all tangled together. Years of running and hiding and missing him and finally finding my way back.
Finally finding a place to call home.
“I want to stay,” I say as steady as I can.
He goes very still. “Stay?”
“In Westerly Point. I want to stay.” The words are coming faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking.
“I’ve been thinking about it for three days.
Longer than that, really. Ever since I got here.
And I keep trying to come up with reasons why I shouldn’t.
Why it’s too risky or too fast or too complicated.
But I can’t. Because this” — I gesture around the tiny bathroom, at the cottage falling apart outside, at him sitting here tending to my cuts like they’re the most important thing in the world — “this feels like home.” I laugh.
“For the first time in years, something feels like home.”
His breath catches audibly, and his hands flex on my waist.