Page 10 of Neap & Spring

“She?” I ask. My voice sounds normal. That’s good.

“Yep. Showed up in an expensive car, nice blazer, the whole thing. She’s standing in the dining room right now looking around like she’s taking notes in her head.” Frannie leans against the counter, and I notice the way Roman immediately straightens up and runs a hand through his messy hair.

“Did she say anything?” I ask, buying myself time. My hands find a towel and I wipe them even though they’re not dirty.

“Just that she’s here for the ten o’clock consultation.” Frannie tilts her head, studying me. “You okay, Cal? You look —”

“I’m fine.”

“You look kind of pale.”

“I’m always pale. It’s called being inside a kitchen for eighteen hours a day.”

Roman snorts. “You want me to go out there? I can do the intro thing.”

“No.” I untie my apron and ball it up before tossing it on the counter. My chef’s whites are on. I put them on an hour ago when the morning crew arrived. I tug at the collar, suddenly aware of how hot it is back here. The kitchen is always hot, but right now it feels like the walls are closing in. “I’ll handle it.”

“You sure?” Roman asks. He knows I don’t want to do this. He knows I’ve been dreading it since the investors first mentioned bringing someone in.

But we don’t have a choice. The numbers don’t lie, though I’ve been lying to myself for months thinking I could fix this on my own.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” I grab a towel and wipe my hands again. “Just — keep prepping. I’ll be back in a few.”

Frannie pushes off the counter and heads toward the door, but not before shooting Roman a smile that makes him look like he’s been hit in the head with a pan. “She seems nice,” she calls over her shoulder. “Professional. Put-together. Probably going to tell you everything you’re doing wrong.”

“Thanks for that, Fran.”

“Anytime!”

The doors swing shut behind her, and it’s just me, Roman, and Cora in the kitchen.

“You want us to come with?” Cora offers.

“No. Stay here. Finish the dessert. I …” I take a breath and straighten my shoulders. My hands are at my sides and I realize I’m making fists. I force them to relax. “I’ll deal with this.”

Roman gives me a look that I pretend not to see, and I push through the kitchen doors before he can say anything encouraging or supportive or any of that shit that’ll make this worse.

The few steps between the kitchen and dining room door feel longer than they should.

My boots are heavy on the tile. I can hear my own breathing and feel my pulse in my throat. This is stupid. It’s just a consultant. Just someone here to do a job. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they think.

Except it does matter. Because this is my restaurant. My dream. The thing I’ve poured everything into for three years, and some stranger is about to walk through it and tell me I’ve fucked it all up.

I stop just before the doors to the dining room, one hand raised to push through.

I could turn around. I could send Roman out there. I could —

No.

I push through.

The dining room is quiet. We don’t open for another two hours, so it’s just the empty tables, the chairs still upside-down on half of them from last night’s close, the morning light pouring through the windows.

And standing in the middle of it all, back to me, is a woman.

She’s looking out at the ocean, but I can see her profile. Dark hair pulled back, blazer that probably cost more than my rent, an iPad tucked under one arm. She’s completely still, just staring out at the water like she’s trying to memorize it.

I stop dead in my tracks in the middle of the doorway.