Page 12 of Neap & Spring

“Then what?” I take another step toward her against my will and watch her flinch. I stop and shove my hands in my pockets to hide the shaking. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here?”

“I didn’t think you’d —” She stops and swallows hard. The defensiveness drops out of her face all at once replaced by what looks like relief. Or guilt. Maybe both. “You didn’t know I was coming?”

I let out a laugh that has nothing to do with humor. “If I fucking knew it was you, I would have called the investors myself and demanded someone else. Anyone else. I would have told them to send literally any other consultant on the planet.”

Her chin lifts, just slightly, hurt flashing across her face before she can hide it, and I feel a twist in my chest that I don’t want to acknowledge.

But the rest of me is too angry to care.

“I didn’t look at the file,” I continue. My voice comes out cold and controlled even though everything inside me is screaming. “The investors hired someone to come in and tell me everything I’m doing wrong. I didn’t particularly care who. I figured it didn’t matter because they’d all say the same shit anyway.

“But you —” I stop and try to get my voice under control because Roman and Cora are right behind those kitchen doors, and I don’t need them hearing this. I turn away from her and walk three steps toward the kitchen, then turn back. “You knew. You looked at that file, saw my name, and decided to come here anyway.”

“I thought you would have been told,” she says quietly. “I thought you’d know it was me. That you’d have time to … prepare.”

“Well, I didn’t. So here we are.”

The silence stretches between us. It’s heavy and awful and I can’t look at her anymore. I turn back toward the kitchen and press my palms flat against the pass, staring at nothing.

Behind me, I hear her shift, the rustle of her blazer shifting. I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s gripping that iPad so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

“I can leave,” she says finally. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can call the investors right now and tell them there’s a conflict of interest. They can send someone else. I don’t have to be here.”

“No.”

She makes a surprised, breathless sound. “What?”

I turn back around to face her. Her shoulders are tight, her whole body wound up like she’s ready to bolt.

I don’t want to feel sorry for her.

I won’t.

“You’re here. They hired you. And apparently I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo about this little reunion.” I cross my arms over my chest, putting a barrier between us. Between now and five years ago. “So you might as well do your job.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

She stares at me, and I can see her trying to figure out if I mean it.

I do.

Because as much as I want her gone and to never see her again, I need help. The restaurant is dying. I’ve been hemorrhaging money for months. And if Vivienne is supposed to be good at this — and she must be, or the investors wouldn’t have hired her — then I need her.

Even if it kills me.

“We have six months,” My voice comes out flat and professional. “Six months to turn this place around or the bank forecloses. The investors are paying you to fix this. So fix it.”

“Callum, we can’t do this.”

“We can. And we will. Professionally.” I emphasize the word, making it a wall between us. “You’re the consultant. And I’m the chef. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” she repeats. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.

I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.

But what choice do I have?