Vivienne #2
“And then” — his voice catches slightly — “then John Castellano’s estate paid off the debt.
Just like that. Hundreds of thousands of dollars gone.
And suddenly I could breathe again. Suddenly the restaurant was actually mine.
And you” — his arms tighten around me — “you told me you were staying. In this little town. With me.”
One of his hands moves from my waist, reaching for something beside us on the blanket. I hear the rustle of fabric and feel him shift slightly behind me.
“These past five years have been …” He pauses, and I feel him shake his head slightly.
“God, Vivi. They’ve been everything. Watching you heal and pick up a knife again for the first time.
Seeing you work your first full service.
Building this restaurant into something neither of us could have imagined. ”
Tears are already forming, blurring the ocean in front of me.
“Waking up next to you every morning,” he continues. “Sunday dinners with Dad where you fit in like you’ve always been there. Teaching you how to fish, and you being so terrible at it.”
“I’m not terrible at it!” I exclaim with a laugh.
“You’re extremely terrible. You’ve hooked me four times.” His free hand comes up, and I know without looking he’s touching the small scar on his forearm. “I have the scars to prove it.”
“That last one wasn’t my fault. The wind caught the line.”
“There was no wind that day, Vivi baby.”
“There was a light breeze.”
“There was not.”
His hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through, and I feel him take a deep breath.
“We’ve had neap tides,” he continues on.
“So many of them. The quiet, ordinary days that make up most of life. Coming home to each other after service and being too tired to do anything but fall into bed. Morning coffee while you read the news and I pretend I’m not staring at you.
Arguments about menu pricing that always end with you being right because you’re always right about the numbers. ”
“I am always right about the numbers.”
“You are. And I love that about you.” He shifts again behind me and his voice drops an octave.
“And we’ve had spring tides too. The extreme highs.
The Michelin recognition that had you crying in the walk-in because you never thought you’d cook professionally again, yet here you were being recognized as one of the best. Roman and Frannie’s wedding where we both cried during the vows.
The night that cottage finally fell into the ocean during that storm and you officially moved in with me. ”
“That cottage was a death trap,” I manage, my voice thick with tears.
“It was the worst cottage in the history of coastal real estate.” I can hear the smile in his voice. He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “But it brought you to me. So I’ll always be grateful for that death trap.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel his heart hammering against my back and feel the slight tremor in his hands.
“Vivienne,” his voice is shaking. “Can you turn around? I need to see your face.”
I shift in his arms, turning carefully on the blanket until I’m facing him. The candlelight flickers across his face, catching in his eyes, illuminating the nervous hope written all over his features.
And he’s holding a ring.
A simple white-gold band with a single stone that catches the candlelight and throws it back in fractured rainbows. It’s beautiful and perfect and so unmistakably us — classic and understated and absolutely right.
“These five years have been the best of my life,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
“And I want every year after this. Every single one. Every neap tide and every spring tide. Every ordinary Tuesday and every extraordinary celebration. Every argument and every morning coffee and every sunset exactly like this one.”
He’s crying now, tears sliding down his cheeks, and I realize I am too.
“Vivienne Lane,” he says, holding the ring between us. “Will you marry me?”
I’m nodding before he even finishes the question, my hands coming up to frame his face.
“Yes,” I yell through the tears. “Yes, of course yes. Yes.”
His smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His hands are shaking as he takes my left hand and slides the ring onto my finger with infinite care. It fits perfectly, settling into place like it was always meant to be there.
And then he’s pulling me into a kiss. I kiss him back with everything I have, my hands tangling in his hair, my whole body pressed against his.
When we finally break apart, we’re both crying and laughing and holding each other like we did that night in the bathroom during the storm — desperate and relieved and so full of love it feels like it might overflow.
“I love you,” I say against his mouth, the words tumbling out between kisses. “I love you so much. I never stopped. Not once.”
“I love you.” He kisses me again, softer this time. “Always have. Always will. Since Paris. Since before Paris, probably. In every lifetime before and after this one.”
We sit there for a long time, wrapped around each other, watching the twilight deepen into full dark.
The candles flicker in the gentle ocean breeze, casting moving shadows across the sand.
The waves whisper against the shore in that eternal rhythm.
And on my finger, the ring catches the light with every small movement.
Above us, stars are slowly appearing one by one.
The same stars that were there that night five years ago when everything fell apart and came back together.
The same stars that were there in Paris when we kissed for the first time.
The same stars that will be there for every day that comes after this.
“We should probably get back,” Callum says eventually, though he makes no move to stand. “Roman’s probably losing his mind.”
“Roman’s fine.” I settle more comfortably against him. “He’s been running that kitchen single-handedly for the past year when we’re both in meetings or dealing with suppliers or —”
“Or making out in the walk-in?”
“That was one time.”
“It was a few times.”
“Okay, maybe three times. But my point stands. Roman can handle it.” I hold up my left hand, watching the ring catch the candlelight. “Did you see the Michelin inspector?”
“He’s been back twice this month already.” Callum’s hand finds mine, his thumb brushing over the ring. “Third time’s the charm, maybe.”
“Maybe.” I turn in his arms to look at him properly. “Do you care? Really?”
He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “Honestly? Not as much as I thought I would.” His arms tighten around me.
“Don’t get me wrong — a star would be incredible.
It would be validation for everything we’ve built.
But this?” He gestures around us — at the beach, at the restaurant visible in the distance, at me.
“This is already everything. The restaurant’s doing well.
We’re booked solid for months. The food is the best it’s ever been.
And I get to cook with the woman I love every single day.
” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “A Michelin star would just be icing. This is the actual cake.”
My heart swells so much it actually hurts. “Yeah. It is.”
We watch the last of the light fade completely from the sky, the stars becoming brighter as full darkness settles in. The ocean is barely visible now, but I can feel it.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Remember graduation night?”
“Every single detail.” His voice is quiet. “Your dress. The way you looked when they called your name for the Chef’s Award. The bar where we went after. My apartment.”
“My favorite part,” I say softly.
His hand is moving in slow circles on my back. “The way you looked at me when I told you you were it for me.”
“I couldn’t believe it.” I turn to face him again. “You were this beautiful, talented, ridiculous man who made me laugh during the worst days of culinary school. And who competed with me and pushed me and made me better. And you wanted me. Me! I couldn’t believe it.”
“I told you I’d wait however long it took,” he says.
“You did.” I cup his face in my hands, making sure he’s looking at me.
“I’m so glad we found our way back to each other.
” My voice is shaking, but I don’t care.
“I love you, Callum Reid. I love waking up next to you every morning. I love the way you make me laugh when I’m taking myself too seriously.
I love the way you believed I could cook again before I believed it myself.
I love every single ordinary, extraordinary day we’ve built together.
” I lean my forehead against his. “I loved you in Paris and I love you now, and I will love you every single day for the rest of my life. And the next.”
I kiss him again, full of everything I can’t quite find words for.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine. “We should really get back. Everyone’s waiting.”
“Everyone?” I pull back to look at him. “What do you mean everyone?”
His smile turns slightly sheepish. “I might have mentioned to a few people that I was planning to propose tonight.”
“A few people?”
“Okay, everyone. I told everyone. I’m not good at keeping secrets from my family, and Roman figured it out when he caught me staring at a picture of the ring on my phone during prep, and then Frannie overheard us talking about it and told Cora, and —”
“The entire restaurant knows,” I finish.
“The entire restaurant knows. Also Dad. And my brothers. And Margo. And Iris. And probably half the town because you know how Westerly Point is about gossip. Also your parents.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love.” He stands, offering me his hand. “And I’m really bad at playing it cool about it.”
I take his hand and let him pull me up. I look down at the ring on my finger, then back at him. “This was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“Yeah?” He looks genuinely relieved, like there was a chance I might say otherwise.