Page 149 of Neap & Spring

Then I call Callum.

He picks up on the second ring. He always picks up on the second ring. And just hearing his voice makes my chest unclench, the tension of the day finally releasing.

“How was it?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Did you survive your first day at the legendary Voss?”

“I survived.” I kick off my shoes and collapse onto my bed, phone pressed to my ear. “Cal, it was incredible. The kitchen is massive — eighteen stations, copper pans hanging from the ceiling, this beautiful old tile work that’s most likely original to the building. And the pass, when it’s running at full speed, it sounds like —”

“Like a symphony,” he finishes.

“Exactly like that.” I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s what a good kitchen sounds like. And you sound like you just fell in love.”

My stomach flips. “It’s just a kitchen.”

“Liar.” His voice drops lower, teasing. “You’re completely smitten. I can hear it.”

“You can’t hear anything. I’m just describing equipment.”

“You spent three minutes talking about the quality of their stock. Three minutes, Vivi. That’s not describing equipment. That’s foreplay.”

I laugh, burying my face in my pillow, feeling my cheeks heat. “Shut up.”

“Tell me more,” he says. “What else?”

So I do. I tell him about everything. About the precision of the prep work and the way Voss moves through the kitchen like he owns not just the space but the air inside it. About the other cooks and how focused they are and the pastry corner where the two other women work.

Callum listens to all of it, asking questions in the right places, making small sounds of understanding when I describe something he recognizes from his own kitchens. He gets it in a way no one else would. In a way that makes me ache because he’s on the other side of the country and I’m here, and the distance feels impossible.

When I finally run out of things to say, he’s quiet for a second.

“You’re happy,” he says softly.

“I’m exhausted,” I say.

“Same thing for you.”

He’s not wrong.

“I miss you,” I say before I can stop myself. The words hang there between us, vulnerable and true.

He’s quiet for so long I think maybe the connection dropped.

“Cal?”

“I miss you too.” His voice is rough now, all the teasing gone. “So much it’s stupid. You’ve been gone what, a year? And I still look for you in every kitchen I walk into.”

My throat tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Can’t help it.” I hear him shift, and I can picture him lying on his bed in his tiny apartment, phone to his ear. “You know what I did today?”

“What?”

“Made that brown butter sauce you’re always going on about. The one with the capers and preserved lemon.”

“And?”

“And it was good. Really good. But the whole time I was making it I kept thinking about how you’d probably tell me I didn’t reduce it enough or the lemon needed more time to marinate.”