Page 111 of Neap & Spring

She won’t take walks with me anymore.

I thought maybe we shifted into different territory after dinner with my family, but I’ve asked three times since that day on the beach, and each time she has said no. I suggested a walk after service when the kitchen is closed and the night air is cool and perfect. Before the dinner rush when the afternoon light hits the water just right. On our day off when we could actually take our time and go to the bakery and sit by the water and just talk.

But she always had an excuse ready. Always. She’s too busy with event planning. There’s too much to do before Saturday and she can’t afford to take a break. She needs to do laundry.

All valid reasons. All probably true.

But also, she’s avoiding me. She’s avoiding being alone with me.

She won’t let us be alone together if she can help it. She’s strategic about it, almost military in her discipline about it. She always makes sure someone else is around — Frannie, Roman, even customers at the bar. She always leaves right when the last person leaves, timing it perfectly so there’s no chance of us being the only two people left. She never lingers. And never gives us more than a few seconds of privacy.

But I catch her staring.

All the time.

During service, when she’s at her corner table with her laptop open, I’ll look up from plating and find her watching me. Her eyes tracking my movements across the kitchen, following me from station to station.

And when I catch her, she doesn’t look away immediately like someone who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t. She just holds my gaze, her expression unreadable, before going back to her screen like nothing happened.

It makes my heart race every single time.

And sometimes, when she passes close to me in the narrow spaces of the restaurant, reaching for a glass of water at the bar, or grabbing papers from the office, or moving through the kitchen, her hand will brush against my arm. My shoulder. The small of my back.

Small touches that could be accidental. That probably are accidental given how tight the space is and how easy it is to bump into people.

Except they happen too often to be coincidence. And they linger too long to be mistakes.

It’s driving me insane.

Actually insane. I can’t sleep. I can’t think about anything except those touches and what they mean and whether I’m reading into nothing.

I want to ask her about it. I want to pull her aside and demand to know what she’s thinking and feeling and whether those touches are intentional or if I’m just a desperate idiot seeing patterns where there aren’t any.

But I’m also terrified.

So I’m trying to be patient. And trying to give her space and let her come to me when she’s ready.

All while trying not to hope for something that might never happen but also watching her put down roots and being terrified she’ll rip them up and leave before they can take hold.

“Okay, I’m officially exhausted,” Cora’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “I’ve been on my feet since six this morning, and I can’t feel my toes. I’m heading out.”

“Yeah, same.” Frannie’s voice, already moving toward the front. “You coming, Viv?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up.” Vivienne’s voice is casual, but I catch a hint of nervousness in her tone.

I hear bags rustling as they grab their things, Frannie humming something under her breath that sounds like the song that’s been playing on the radio all week.

The front door opens. I hear the rush of outside air and the distant sound of the ocean.

And then it’s quiet again.

I stand very still, my hands braced on the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cool stainless steel, listening for movement. My heart is pounding harder than it should be since nothing is happening.

I listen to the footsteps still moving around in the dining room. The soft click of the deadbolt on the front door being turned. More footsteps getting closer to the kitchen.

My pulse kicks up another notch, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Then Vivienne appears in the doorway.