Page 107 of Neap & Spring

But somewhere between the string lights and the restaurant and the hand in mine, somewhere between the highs and the lows and Patrick telling me that making a dip was actually a victory…

I think I might be starting to understand why Callum came back here.

And I think, for the first time since I drove ten hours and nearly hit a deer and found out I was here to save the restaurant of the person I never stopped thinking about —

I think I might be in real trouble.

The kind of trouble that changes everything and makes you want to stop running.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Callum

The restaurant is quiet in that very specific way it only gets after closing.

There’s still noise from the kitchen, but it’s different from the chaos of service. The rhythmic clatter of the dishwasher running its final cycle. Water running in the industrial sink, hitting stainless steel in a constant stream. The sound of Roman and Danny moving through their closing routines, pans clanging as they get stacked and nested, the low murmur of their voices as they confirm everything’s done and ready for tomorrow.

The dining room is empty. Tables are wiped down, their surfaces gleaming and reflecting the dim overhead lights we leave on after hours. Most of the chairs are stacked on top of them, legs up, creating jagged shadows on the walls. The frantic energy of the day has settled. It’s peaceful and I can feel my shoulders dropping more by the second, the tension I carry through dinner service finally easing.

And I’m testing scallops.

Again.

My hands move through familiar motions. I adjust the heat on the burner with a small turn of the knob that changes the flame from blue-white to a softer yellow. Then I reach for the cast-iron pan, the handle wrapped in a towel because it’s been on the heat too long to touch bare-handed. I tilt it slightly, pooling the brown butter against the side, watching it foam and separate, listening to the sizzle change pitch as the milk solidifies.

The collaborative dinner is in three days. Seventy-two hours until Chef Amara Singh arrives from Portland with her sous chef. Seventy-two hours until we share this kitchen — my kitchen — and cook together for a sold-out house. Every food blogger and critic and local foodie within a hundred miles is expected to descend on Neap & Spring to see if we’re worth the hype Vivienne’s been building for the past two months.

No pressure.

Right.

I pull the pan off the heat and plate a scallop. The sear is perfect. Its deep golden-brown crust has the kind of caramelization that only happens when the pan is exactly the right temperature and you don’t move the scallop even once, not even to peek. The flesh will be just barely opaque, tender, and almost buttery in texture.

The sauce is a brown butter emulsion with preserved lemon and capers. It’s the color of honey, flecked with green herbs and dark beads of capers. It looks right. It smells right. Bright citrus is cutting through the richness of the butter, the salt of the capers providing stark contrast.

But something’s missing.

I just have that gut feeling that tells you when a dish isn’t quite there yet.

I grab a clean fork from the container beside the stove and cut into the scallop. Steam rises from the cut, and I can see the translucent center, perfectly cooked. I get some of the sauce on the fork and bring it to my mouth.

I close my eyes and let the flavors develop on my tongue. The sweetness of the scallop. The nutty richness of brown butter. The bright pop of preserved lemon. The brine of capers.

Good. It’s really good.

But it’s not perfect.

Not yet.

It needs more acid. Maybe a touch more capers, or a squeeze of fresh lemon at the end. Or maybe —

“Oh my God, Viv, that’s perfect on you!”

Frannie’s voice cuts through my concentration, loud and enthusiastic, completely shattering the quiet of the restaurant.

I glance up from the plate, almost annoyed at the interruption, and look through the window into the dining room.

Vivienne is standing by table four with Frannie and Cora, all three of them clustered together in that way women do when they’re sharing something exciting. Frannie leans in to look at something on Vivienne’s phone, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Cora is perched on the edge of one of the unstacked chairs, her legs crossed, still in her chef’s whites.