Page 11 of Neap & Spring

I don’t know what it is. The way she’s standing, maybe. The angle of her shoulders or the tilt of her head. My body clocks it before my brain has the chance to catch up, a recognition I can’t place, like a word sitting just out of reach.

I shake it off.

Consultants. They’re all the same. They show up, judge everything you’ve built, tell you to change the menu and fire half your staff, and turn your passion into something profitable and soulless. I’ve heard the stories. I know how this goes.

I take a breath and put on my best professional face — the one that hides the fact that I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in two years — and start walking toward her.

“You must be the consultant.” It comes out flat and unwelcoming. I don’t fix it.

She turns around slowly.

And my entire world stops.

CHAPTER FOUR

Callum

Vivienne.

Vivienne.

The name hits me like a blow, and I stumble back a step. My lungs forget how to take in air. My heart is suddenly too loud in my ears.

For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. I’ve finally cracked from the stress and the sleepless nights, and my brain has just decided to project the one person I never thought I’d see again into my failing restaurant at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

But no.

She’s real.

She’s standing right there, ten feet away, and she looks exactly the same except completely different. Her hair is longer, pulled back in a smooth, professional style. She’s wearing clothes that actually fit instead of boxy chef’s whites covered in sauce stains. She’s polished now. Put-together in a way that makes no sense against the girl who used to show up to class with flour in her hair and a smile that made my world tilt.

She’s staring at me like she’s seen a ghost. But she doesn’t look surprised. She doesn’t look shocked. She looks … guilty.

And then it hits me. She would have had a file with my name on the cover page, the restaurant name underneath it. The investors would have sent it the second they signed her. She’s had days — maybe weeks — to see my name and decide what to do with that information.

She knew she was coming to my restaurant. And she came anyway, and she didn’t think to give me a heads up. She didn’t feel obligated to call, or email, or send a fucking carrier pigeon to let me know that my past was about to walk through my door.

The anger hits me like a wave.

My hands clench into fists at my sides. My jaw locks so tight I can feel my teeth grinding. There’s a roaring in my ears that has nothing to do with the ocean outside.

“Callum,” she says, and I flinch. Her voice sounds so small and all wrong. Vivienne’s voice was never small.

My whole body goes rigid. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

She takes a step back, her hand tightening on the iPad. “I can explain.”

“Explain what?” I take a step forward. “Why you looked at the file and saw my name and decided to show up anyway?”

“I didn’t —”

“Don’t.” I lock my knees to keep myself from moving closer to her. “Don’t lie to me. You knew. The investors sent you everything. The restaurant name, the location, the owner. My name was on that file, Vivienne.”

Her face goes pale. “Callum, please. Let’s just talk about this.”

“Did you think this would be fun? A trip down memory lane? Surprise! Let’s see how Callum’s doing after five years of complete fucking silence?”

“That’s not —”