Page 132 of Neap & Spring

Then, I kiss her.

Right here in the middle of my dining room, with eighty-five people watching, with my entire family probably staring, and with the investors definitely taking notes. I kiss her like she’s the only reason any of this matters and she’s the only reason I’m still standing.

When I pull back, she’s flushed, her lipstick slightly smudged, her eyes wide.

“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “I should probably get back to the kitchen.”

“Probably,” she agrees, but she’s still holding onto my whites.

“You look beautiful.”

“You said that already.” But she’s smiling, her whole face lighting up.

“I’m going to keep saying it.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone again, feeling the warmth of her skin, trying to memorize the way she looks right now. “Every chance I get.”

“Go.” She pushes at my chest gently, but there’s no force behind it. “Go be brilliant.”

I step back reluctantly, my hands sliding away from her. Then I turn and head back to the kitchen, feeling her eyes on me the whole way and like I’m on top of the world.

Roman is waiting by the door, arms crossed, grinning like an idiot.

“Not a word,” I tell him.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Chef.” But he’s still grinning, eyes dancing with amusement. “Fifteen minutes till the first course?”

“Fifteen minutes.” I roll my shoulders back, settling into the focus I need. “Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

The first course goes out at exactly six-thirty.

Amara’s crudo — thin slices of hamachi dressed in tamarind water with fresh green chili, crispy curry leaves, and a few drops of coconut oil that pool like tiny mirrors on the surface, plated on small white dishes that make the whole thing look like jewelry. Marcus handles the garnish with tweezers, placing each curry leaf precisely, a thin curl of raw mango on top of each slice.

I watch the first plates go out through the window, Becca and Morgan moving in a synchronized rhythm they’ve perfected over years of working together.

The dining room goes quiet when the food arrives. I can see Vivienne from here, standing near the hostess stand with Frannie. She’s watching the tables, her eyes tracking the reactions. When someone at table three takes their first bite and their eyes close in pleasure, I see her smile.

“How’s it looking out there?” I ask Becca when she comes back for the next round.

“They’re losing their minds.” She’s flushed and excited, her hair escaping from its ponytail. “Table seven — the investors — just asked for the recipe. I told them absolutely not.”

“Good.”

“Table twelve wants to know if we do this every Saturday.” She grabs three more plates, balancing them expertly. “I told them to follow our Instagram.”

Roman catches my eye from his station and grins. “Told you.”

The crudo course clears in twenty minutes. Every plate comes back to the kitchen clean, not a drop of tamarind left behind.

“First course down,” Amara announces, already pivoting to her next station. “How are we on timing for the scallops?”

“Ready when you are,” I tell her.

The second course is mine.

My pan-seared scallops with brown butter emulsion, preserved lemon, and capers. I finally perfected the ratio. It’s simple and classic, but lives or dies on execution. The scallops have to be perfect — golden crust, barely translucent center, seasoned precisely. The sauce has to be the color of honey, bright with citrus, the capers cutting through the richness of the butter.

I’ve made this dish a thousand times by now. I could make it in my sleep.

And tonight, with everyone watching, my hands are steadier than they’ve been in months.