Page 22 of Neap & Spring

I blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You want to get a drink later? I can tell you all about the restaurant and give you an unofficial tour.” He’s still smiling, but there’s genuine warmth underneath the flirtation. An offer of friendliness in a room full of judging stares.

“Roman.” Callum’s voice could cut glass.

Roman holds up his hands, laughing. “What? I’m just being friendly. You’re the one who said we should make her feel welcome.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You implied it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

I clear my throat, needing to redirect before this devolves further. “Should we continue with the tour?”

Callum looks at me, and for just a second, the anger drops out of his expression entirely. Then the door closes again, shuttered away behind that cold mask.

“Yeah. Fine.” He gestures to a woman standing near the pastry station. “That’s Cora. She’s our pastry chef.”

I turn to look and find a petite woman with dark skin and box braids pulled back into a bun. She’s got flour on her hands and what looks like lemon curd on her apron. She gives me a small smile, but her eyes flick to Callum with a look of concern.

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

“You too. That looks incredible.” I say, pointing to a lemon meringue.

Her smile warms slightly. “Thank you. It’s new. I’m still working out the kinks.”

“It looks perfect,” I say honestly, leaning in to look at the plating more closely. The burnt meringue has the ideal char. “I can tell without even tasting it.”

Callum makes a sound that might be an agreement, but it’s hard to tell. He’s already moving on, gesturing to the next station.

We continue through the kitchen. Callum introduces me to the line cooks — Marvin and Javi, both young, both watching Callum carefully like they’re trying to gauge how they should react. I shake their hands and ask about their stations. Marvin is on sauté, and his prep work is impeccable. Perfectly diced shallots, fresh herbs picked and ready, and small containers of reduced stock are lined up in neat rows. Javi handles the grill and keeps shooting me suspicious looks.

The prep cook is a kid named Danny who can’t be older than twenty. He barely makes eye contact when Callum introduces us. He just nods while his hands never stop their work on brunoised carrots.

The dishwasher, Lou, is an older guy with gray hair and tattooed knuckles. He just smiles at me and goes back to scrubbing a pot, unbothered by the tension everyone else can feel.

I take notes on my iPad, my fingers finding the familiar rhythm of typing. I ask questions about prep times and where they source their ingredients. The flow of service and each individual job. Everyone answers, but their eyes keep darting to Callum, checking for his reaction.

He’s stone-faced, arms crossed and radiating displeasure with every word.

Roman keeps trying to lighten the mood. He keeps cracking jokes and asking me questions about consulting like he’s genuinely interested. “So what’s the coolest restaurant you’ve worked with? Any place I’d know?”

“A few,” I say, managing a small smile. “Mostly smaller operations like this. Places with great food that just need help with the business side.”

“That’s us,” Roman says. “Great food with questionable business decisions.” He grins. “What did you find out so far?”

I glance at Callum, but he’s not looking at me. “It’s still early,” I say carefully. “But the kitchen is clearly well-run. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing.”

“Damn right we do,” Javi mutters from the grill station.

I’m dying inside. Every second of this is torture. I can feel Callum’s anger like a physical presence, pressing against my chest and making it hard to breathe. The heat from the kitchen isn’t helping. I can feel sweat starting to gather at the small of my back and against my hairline. I don’t know how to make this better. I don’t know how to do my job when he’s looking at me like I’m the enemy.

“Alright,” Callum says finally, cutting off a question I was asking Marvin about his prep schedule. “That’s the kitchen. Let’s move to the dining room.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and heads for the door.

I start to follow, tucking the iPad more securely under my arm, but Cora catches his arm as he passes.