Page 130 of Neap & Spring

Be a good girl and drive home. Now. Before I come out there and we both forget about sleeping.

My stomach flips, heat pooling low in my belly. I stare at the message, my heart pounding, then force myself to put the phone face-down on the passenger seat before I do something stupid like drive back to the restaurant.

But I’m smiling the whole drive home.

And when I pull into the cottage driveway and finally check my phone again, there’s one more message waiting.

Sweet dreams, Vivi.

The smile stays with me as I unlock the front door and drop my bag on the couch. I catch myself grinning as I brush my teeth and wash my face and change into an old t-shirt. It’s still there when I climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin, listening to the ocean through the open window.

I fall asleep still smiling, Callum’s last message glowing warm in my chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Callum

The kitchen is ready.

I’ve checked everything three times. Every station is prepped. Every container is filled and labeled. Every plate is stacked and ready. The scallops are perfect. The halibut is pristine. Amara’s components for the third course are lined up on her station like tiny soldiers waiting for orders. Marcus has been working on his vegetable prep for two hours, and it looks like art.

And the weather is holding. The rain that’s been threatening all week is staying away, at least for now. The forecast says rain later tonight, but later is all I need. It just needs to let us get through service with the patio dry, the guests comfortable, and the view clear.

We’re ready.

So why does my chest feel like someone’s standing on it?

“Chef.” Roman appears at my elbow, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Dining room’s filling up. We’ve got about twenty minutes before the first plate.”

“How’s it look out there?”

“Packed. Standing room only at the bar. Frannie’s in her element.” He grins. “Also, your entire family is here. Your dad brought flowers.”

Of course he did.

I move to the window, looking out into the dining room. And Roman’s right. It’s packed. Every table is full or in the process of filling. I spot the investors immediately. We sat them at the prime table by the window with the best view in the house. They’re already drinking wine and laughing about something loudly.

My family has taken over the big table in the back corner. Dad, Wesley, Hayes, and Beckett, all dressed up in button-downs and jackets, looking slightly uncomfortable but happy to be here. Dad’s talking to someone at the next table, gesturing with his wine glass. Hayes is on his phone, probably checking work emails even now. Beckett is leaning back in his chair, already charming a group of women at the table next to them, making them laugh with whatever story he’s spinning.

Wesley is standing near the table talking to two women — one with long blonde hair in a simple pink dress, the other all dark choppy hair, leopard pants, and visible tattoos on both arms. I can see even from here that Wesley’s shoulders are tight and his teeth are clenched. His whole body language is screaming frustrated. He’s got that look he gets when he’s trying very hard to be polite but is actually very irritated.

The tattooed one says something, and Wesley’s expression darkens. The blonde touches her arm, and they both move toward the bar with a wave. The tattooed one winks at Wesley.

Wesley watches them go, his eyes tracking them across the room, before sitting down at the table, hands curling into fists.

I have no idea who they are, but Wesley clearly does, and he clearly wishes he didn’t.

There are people I don’t recognize scattered throughout the room. Food bloggers, probably, based on the cameras. Several are already taking photos of the space, the ocean view, and the table settings Vivienne and Frannie worked so hard on. There are locals I’ve seen around town but never served, all dressed up for the occasion. A woman in the corner I’m pretty sure writes for a Portland food magazine, her notebook already open on the table.

I step back from the window and press my palms flat against the cool stainless-steel counter. I slowly take a deep breath in through my nose, filling my lungs completely, holding it for a count of four, and breathing it out through my mouth.

Eighty-five covers. Five courses. Three hours of service where everything has to be perfect. Every plate that goes out has to be worth the hundred and fifty dollars people paid to be here. The investors are watching. Food bloggers are ready to write about every flaw. My entire family is sitting in the dining room putting their faith in me.

I can do this.

I’ve done this a thousand times. This is what I’m good at. This is what I’ve been training for my entire life.

The kitchen is ready. The team is ready. Amara and Marcus are dialed in. Roman knows every station like the back of his hand. Cora’s desserts are works of art sitting in the walk-in.